In The Service Of An Eagle
by Soxman
Summary: Harry Potter, after a top of the line education, and three years of service in the United States, comes home to Britian. His timing couldn't have been worse. Extremley AU.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This story was mildly inspired by _Anarkia_ by Naia and _Prodigy_ by ChipmonkOnSpeed. It is an attempt to combine the Wrong Boy-Who-Lived, Knowledge-Is-Power, and Harry-With-Family genre. I don't own Harry Potter, and I'm not making any money from this. Happy New Year!

Prologue: The Last Case

"So let's go over this again, boys." The speaker was a brown haired man with a weathered face, who was apparently middle aged. His brown hair was balding, and his face was weathered with scars. His gruff tone conveyed how weary he was; this was getting near five hours!

"Well, sir," his black haired assistant- his long hair messy and shooting out at odd angles- began, "What we have is no substantive evidence, no approximate time of death, and no real leads on a suspect. We have the autopsy, and aside from the fact that the victim has a bullet in his head, his health was fine. And the lack of evidence means that this wasn't a spur of the moment thing; someone planned to kill Mr. Winters."

He turned to the blond-haired companion with him. "The apartment," the blonde began, beckoning to the scene of the crime; Alex Winter's body lay in the middle of the darkened- all the windows were shut and dimly light candles provided the only illumination- stylish and expensive apartment. The blood pooled under him and stained the lime green carpeting, "It has been examined three times, and no traces have come up. We have nothing sir." They were both silent for a few minutes before turning to their dark haired companion. The only reason they even had a prayer at getting out of here any time soon.

He was busy gently brushing his fingers across the glass table, apparently in the midst of working another miracle. He always did odd things like this right before he had an epiphany. The other three officers were staring at him, as was the deceased man's girlfriend and family present- his two sisters, his brother, and his son. They knew to expect something. And then he spotted tapping the table and turned on his heel to walk over to one of the curtained windows. He grasped the restraining folds and pulled them open. Light surged into the apartment, as did a cool breeze. There, in the middle of the window was a breach in the glass that could only be caused by a gunshot.

"How come no one looked for this?" he demanded. He pulled out his wand and began examining the gunshot-indented glass. "High powered shot, to breach his reinforced glass, and the gun was apparently a sniper rifle- one bullet." He looked at a few of the accompanying aurors. "Go check the apartments in the building directly across from here," he commanded.

Thirty minutes later they were walking out of the building. It took a five minute records search to find that Winter's brother, Steven, had rented an apartment in one of the buildings opposite. Another five minute search of that apartment yielded a gun, matching prints, and enough evidence to put the man away. And the last twenty minutes were spent doing exactly that, booking Winter's brother for murder. And he nearly got away because no one had thought to check the windows…

"I'll see you two tomorrow; Stevens, Harper," the brown haired captain said. Relief was evident in his voice. "Yeah, yeah," replied his blonde haired underling called Harper, walking away; his short blond hair shining in the setting sun's light. He turned to the black haired underling. "Tomorrow, Stevens," he repeated. "Yes sir," replied the messy haired assistant and with that, he was gone too.

* * *

Thomas Stevens awoke after a fitful night of sleep. He sighed, the nightmares. The same ones that had been with him all his life returned last night. Nightmares of a different time, of a different life…

"_Avada Kedavra" intoned a high, menacing voice. A flash of green light rocketed towards him, and then: a scream and a bunch of sobs liter the night. He is gone. And he and his brother are safe._

He awoke a scream on the edge of his throat. A few minutes later he was calm. He sighed, these nightmares always stayed with him; no matter whether he was known as Thomas Stevens, Mark Anderson, or Harry Potter…

It was the curse of knowing Occlumency; a good memory. That meant seeing Voldemort try and kill his parents and baby brother. Well he was only two years younger than Tom, so maybe not 'baby' brother; just a younger brother. And then, when he was three years old, Voldemort came. He tried, and failed, to kill his parents, and him. In fact, Harry still remembered, in graphic detail, when Voldemort cast the killing curse at him. That's what gave him the lightning bolt scar. Well, it had been worse. At one time, that scar had been a horcrux- a soul canister. Thankfully it was removed when he was eight. Keeping it would have had a dreadful impact on his magical abilities. But then his parents, well after that attack, a few months later, though he never knew why; they put him in an orphanage.

He thought he was a good child, but he wasn't in position to judge. He still remembered his mother, tears in her eyes, her red hair shining in the light of a lamppost, laying his blanket down on a cold, hard doorstep, and laying a letter on top of him. His parents waving him goodbye, before disapparating.

Of course, life in the orphanage wasn't easy. He was magical. The other kids weren't. And that meant he was always the outcast, always the bullied one. He had to be on alert and self reliant. But he embraced that status. It was no good to be the one in the corner if he couldn't be himself. And he despised the other kids, and their petty boring lives. If that's what "fitting in" meant, then he would rather not.

And in time, he found a journal from another magical kid who'd been in the orphanage. The journal answered his questions about his strange powers and gave him much needed information. And that was where he'd found ideas to control his powers, to become stronger. Someday, he really had to thank that Tom Riddle- right before he killed him.

But when he was seven, he was getting picked on by the biggest bully in the orphanage; Mike Jangolsky. And finally, in the middle of getting beaten up- it happened occasionally when he wasn't paying enough attention to his surroundings- he'd tapped into his magic and banished the boy into a wall. There was no one around. Except for one person; a man dressed in a black cloak that just happened to be in the area. Severus Snape.

And indeed, Snape might not have known who he was, but he knew talent when he saw it_. "Are you all right?" he said kneeling down to eye level._

_"I'm fine, sir." Harry answered._

_"Do you know what you just did?" he whispered harshly._

_"Banished him into a wall sir," Harry answered fearfully. He used to get punished when anyone caught him using his powers._

_He was silent for a few moments. "Where are your parents?" he asked._

_"Dead, sir, or maybe they couldn't take care of me," the greasy haired potions master was thinking for a few moments._

_"If I could get you away from here- would you be willing to go to a school for magic?" he asked._

_"Certainly sir," Harry answered. He was going to get him out of here?_

_"I have a contact- in Russia. He runs a year-round school that admits children from ages seven to twelve. A normal education takes ten years there. By the time you graduate, you'll be an adult. Would you like that?" he asked slowly._

_Harry nodded. "I'd love to do that, to get away from here. I hate this orphanage. Why would you help me?" he asked in a small voice. He saw the man's look. "It's just; no one ever really gave me any help before, sir."_

_"I'd help you because I wouldn't want to see your talent go to waste. And when your schooling's finished, come see me and perhaps I can offer you an apprenticeship. What's your name?" he asked._

At the time, Harry didn't know his birth name. He had two names; Mark Anderson from the orphanage and the first couple that adopted him, and Thomas Stevens from the second person who'd adopted him and changed his name. If he hadn't died soon after adopting him he might have had a nice life. He liked the second person a lot more.

_"Thomas Stevens, sir." Harry answered._

_"I am Professor Severus Snape. Well, Thomas then I won't lie to you. The school where my contact teaches; it isn't a typical school. I am certain that it will hurt you, and there will be times when tears flood your eyes as you curse my name for ever getting you into this mess. But if you go, and survive, you will be much stronger, infinitely stronger, than if you stay in the orphanage. If. You. Survive. But, as I said, it's your choice. If you want to do this, you have to know what you're getting into," Snape finished._

_Harry thought for a moment. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I'd like to go to that magical school, sir."_

And within minutes Snape had rammed through the system and Thomas Stevens was officially his ward. Harry left the orphanage with the journal and the hand-me-down clothes he had. Harry and Snape spent a day shopping for all the supplies he'd need to attend school. And Harry got his first wand there in the Alley at Ollivanders; eleven and a half inches made of holly and phoenix feather. And a day later he was off to the magical school where Snape's contact taught; Belestaria- located deep in Siberia.

Harry still remembered the school, all red on the outside, looking like a gigantic mansion, and completely different from the surrounding landscape of snow and sleet. There were no normal people around within miles. There were no people within miles. Belestaria was the most exclusive magic school in the world. If you had talent or the right connections, they took you. If you didn't have enough of either, you came home in a box. Their methods were brutal, but very effective. And the school was looked down upon for its high rate of non-wizard populace. Lots of vampires, werewolves, even a few Mermish were the norm at the school. Regular wizards and witches in Tom's class numbered just twenty. And of them, eighteen were girls. In his class, only Harry and Felix Whitaker were male wizards. He was outnumbered on all sides.

And Snape was right on both counts, he learned, more than he ever thought he could know, and he suffered more than he ever thought he could. It was lucky he was powerful and gifted with magical ability. Because if he hadn't been, he would have been killed; by his classmates, the classes, or even possibly the staff. Shortly after his arrival, after he started struggling in all his classes, the staff took him aside and ran a full medical examination on him. And during it they found the horcrux. Luckily, there was something to being the most advanced and exclusive magical school, because within a day, they had him all sorted out. They also sorted out his poor eyesight at the same time; he hadn't needed glasses since. And he was stronger than ever before. And by the age of thirteen he'd finished his schooling. He left the school with the highest recorded grades in both the school examinations and the worldwide standardized tests- the OWL's and the NEWT's. And after his schooling, the members of the staff arranged an apprenticeship for him, here in America, working with the aurors. Fortunately, he was fluent with English- it was his birth tongue- because his various jobs required its use.

He'd been with the American auror force for nearly three years, and his apprenticeship was nearly over. In fact, next week was his sixteenth birthday. After his birthday he was planning on returning home and calling in the apprenticeship Snape owed him. He already had completed masteries in charms, transfiguration, arithmancy, runes, warding, dueling, parselmagic- that one had been interesting; creating his own field, herbology, healing, magical creatures, elemental magic, enchanting, the mind arts- another mastery created for him(why no one had started a mastery in that field he'd never know), wandless magic, ritual magic, and spell creation. Anyone who finished Belestaria was tested in the first six areas, and could receive their masteries upon graduation of the school. The others- he'd put in a lot of time while working with the aurors. And that wasn't all he knew; Belestaria saw to that. The school focused on other things as well, from languages and basic math, to politics and social customs. They'd also focused on other magical aspects. Everyone who survived their time there was probably going to at least know the basics of alchemy or the Dark Arts. Or be an animagus like him. He'd broken a basic rule of transformation the day he became one; you were only supposed to have one form… And all of their education prepared him for his grueling lifestyle. He didn't need on-the-job training with a Belestaria education under his belt. It was really a go at your own pace school. And most people struggled through ten years to learn enough to graduate. He finished in six because they had nothing left to teach him after that. It was a sad thing that a thirteen year old knew much more about magic than the average wizard. And it was also sad that the American aurors were so desperate for help these days that they'd be willing to accept a thirteen year old into their program.

He didn't work exclusively with the aurors, though. The hit-wizards had pressed him into service; they had need of a wand like his and a person who had no hesitation with killing. And then the CIA came along and asked for some of his time. Actually a lot of his time: in his three years, he'd done a few dozen missions for them. Plus a few other agencies had asked from his assistance from time to time. Like the FBI. Forget James Bond; Thomas Stevens was the American's go-to guy. He'd put in work for the American agencies from Australia and Southeast Asia to Moscow and Berlin. And those agencies had kept him busy. He'd seen more action than a regular CIA operative.

He was already considered one of the most powerful wizards in the world. During the last world dueling tournament, which took place when he was fourteen, he'd won first place. He was considered the best duelist in the world. His status was on par with his British colleague Nicolas Flamel. A nice old man he'd assisted in recreating the Philosopher's stone after it was destroyed in an accident. In fact, once a year an owl from the Flamel's would arrive asking if he could stay for a while. His answer was always the same- he was busy but he'd stop in at a later point. Perenelle Flamel loved him and doted on him like a mother did to her son. And he'd occasionally cross paths with the Flamels when the CIA sent him on assignments overseas, like that one time they'd met up in Burma while tracking an extremist blood purity group.

He shook himself; enough recollection. Time to get on with the day. Captain Dwain Phillips and his assistant Scott Harper were the ones he was working with today. That was why he had a hotel room in Chicago. The Chicago police force needed his help taking out a criminal enterprise that had set up in their backyard. The Winter's murder, the death of one of the most high profile billionaires in the country, was a side quest they'd needed his help with. Today was a raid on the group's headquarters.

He got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. He stopped at the mirror. His messy dark hair hung down to his shoulders. His green eyes glowed brilliantly; highlighted now that he didn't wear glasses. He was in excellent shape, with only a few scars on his body hinting at the constant action he'd seen. That was enough fooling around; time to get ready for his last mission in America.

* * *

"How do we know we can trust him, sir? I mean, he puts in work for the CIA, the hit-wizards, the aurors, various other agencies- can we trust a man like that to be incorruptible? Somewhere along the line, someone made him an offer? What if he accepted?" finished Scott Harper in his boss's office. It was a sparsely decorated office with only medals and awards adorning the office.

Philips lit his cigarette. "I believe, and I don't mean to slight you, that you are still upset about your performance yesterday. You are one of the highest ranked aurors. You've earned as many medals and awards as I've gotten. And yet yesterday, we were truly helpless. Because a wizard decided to kill another wizard using muggle means. That is one of the ways agent Stevens is superior to us, his knowledge of the muggles and their means of killing each other. I trust him. And so do the rest of these agencies. Do you think that if the CIA sensed a double agent in their midst, they wouldn't kill him and throw him over the side?"

"It's just; I've looked at his records. He has received triple the awards we have, in a much shorter time. He always seems to have the answers. His records are spotless in the areas that count. And yesterday, we were there for five hours. And when we turn to him, he has an answer. It doesn't feel right. And you've taught me to always go with my instincts, sir," he finished.

Captain Phillips sighed. "Today is a major operation, so if there's any doubt, anything that might compromise our mission, I have a duty to try and ease it. I believe the reason he took so long yesterday is because he wanted to be sure. He checks, double-checks, and triple-checks the information. He might also have been trying to let one of us get the credit. His records tell us that he is a modest agent, someone reliable and dependable. But why not, let's look through his files, just in case. If you say something doesn't feel right, then I believe you." He stood up and walked over to one of his file cabinets. He stood up and rifled through it before he found the folder. It was quite large, a sign of how much action the man had seen. "Name: Thomas Andrew Stevens. Date of Birth: July 31st, 1978. Age: fifteen soon to be sixteen. Country of Birth: United Kingdom. Schooling: Belestaria in Russia- six years- the norm is ten. Graduated: Valedictorian- ranking 1st in his school, 1st worldwide. There are many letters of praise in here. Many missions; most details are classified. The only negative comments he's received have been for his womanizing."

"Don't forget the few reprimands I've received for insubordination, sir. That's what they call it when you tell your superiors why their plans are going to get you killed, sir," came a voice from the door. Both Harper and Phillips turned to see Stevens at the door dressed in a black protective bodysuit, outfitted with two guns, and his wand holstered at his side. His eyes were covered by a visor- protection against some gas attacks.

"Agent Stevens, we weren't expecting you for another forty five minutes," exclaimed Harper, the surprise evident in his voice.

"Have there been concerns about my work, sir?" Stevens asked politely.

"Yes, there have been some. We were just going over your file, as a precaution," admitted Captain Phillips.

"Well, I'll save you the trouble. Ask me your questions and I'll use Veritaserum or a magical oath to affirm my answers," offered Stevens.

Phillips found a bottle of Veritaserum, and a few minutes later Thomas Stevens was sitting in a chair undergoing a private cautionary questioning.

"Is your loyalty solely to the Chicago Auror Force?" asked Harper.

"No, the CIA, the hit-wizards, and other auror forces around the country also have my loyalty," answered Stevens.

"Have you ever taken a bribe?" asked Phillips.

"Certainly. I work for the CIA don't I. They always bribe new recruits to come join the agency. First a few shiny toys, then talks of patriotism and serving Uncle Sam, and finally a car or some cash," replied Stevens in a bland tone.

Harper and Phillips walked out of the room for a second. "We're asking him bad questions. If we have doubts about his loyalty, we have to come out and say it," whispered Captain Phillips. They walked back in the room.

"Are you planning to compromise our operation today against the Chicago Mafia?" asked Phillips.

"No," said Stevens.

"Have you ever purposely compromised an operation sponsored by an American agency?" asked Harper.

"No." Repeated Stevens.

"Have you ever taken a bribe from a foreign country or criminal enterprise to sabotage an agency assignment or sell information?" asked Phillips.

"No."

"Why did it take you so long to solve the mystery of Winter's murder, yesterday?" asked Harper as Phillips shot him a dark look. He knew this was a bad idea; Harper was getting personal.

"I read Harper's file. It said he was near a promotion. I figured if I let him solve the case and take credit, that promotion would be his," answered Stevens. Harper looked suitably ashamed. Phillips winced, now Harper would probably try to make him look bad.

"Do you have any concerns about today's operation?" asked Phillips trying to steer the questioning back on target.

"Yes. The intelligence about the mafia, their headquarters, their associates, their strength, and the headquarters' layout all seems very suspect. I think they may have an inside man- or two," finished Stevens. Harper and Phillips exchanged looks.

"I have one final question, and it's rather personal. Your records said something about you being a womanizer?" asked Harper. Phillips looked ready to hit him. They didn't need this shit now…

"Yes, I suppose that term would apply to me. In truth, during some of my missions, I have encountered beautiful women, and under duress, they attached themselves to me. Just like at Belestaria. And when the operation is over and the danger is gone, so are they." Silence filled the room. Phillips did belt Harper.

"Way to go asshole," he snarled. Phillips quickly gave him the antidote. "I'm sorry about that, Tom."

"No problem," he said his voice no longer bland, though it was rather emotionless. "I'm happy to assuage your fears. This is supposed to be my last operation in America, and I want it to go smoothly."

"Last operation?" asked Harper.

"Yes, this one marks the end of my three year apprenticeship. Of course, the CIA still has me on call. But after this, I'm returning home," Tom answered.

"To Britain?" pressed on Harper.

"Yes, Scott, to Britain. I haven't been home in nearly ten years," Tom answered a hint of anger in his tone. He decided to try and excuse himself. "Shall I assemble the troops, Captain?" he asked Phillips.

"Certainly, Agent Stevens- we need to be ready for noon," answered Captain Phillips. "Harper and I will be along shortly." Tom walked out. Phillips hit Harper again. "What the hell was that? He's already proven, under Veritaserum, that's he's trustworthy. This is his last mission. Why are you being such an asshole?"

For the first time that morning, Harper looked ashamed. "I'm sorry sir. He- something about him makes me uneasy. I just wanted to assuage my fears. But your right, it was petty and stupid. I'm sorry.

"Apologize to him; before the mission. Get dressed, we leave in an hour," Phillips commanded, leaving the room.

* * *

Tom shook himself. He needed to be ready for this. It was a sad fact but even a decorated veteran like him was still under suspicion from time to time. Of course Harper apologized; he was ashamed when he looked like a jealous prat. He sighed, and checked his equipment again. The Americans had realized the value of being properly armed. Sure, every auror and agent kept a wand, and some like him kept a spare, but the Americans went further. Every auror also was issued a standard handgun and automatic rifle. And some decorated veterans got a sniper rifle. Harry always made sure to go into battle with his handgun, and his sniper rifle- both heavily upgraded. His wand was excellent for all purpose use, but sometimes you needed power. Especially with the odds stacked against him like this.

In truth, they were going into battle with fewer numbers, poorer training, and possible leaks in the ship. Not at all confidence inspiring. He made one final check of his weapons; they were in good working order. Captain Phillips was speaking, a standard pre-operation speech about how they had to make do with limited resources. They were all set to portkey in at twelve. Five minutes to go.

There were about fifty of them in on this operation; against nearly one hundred Mafioso's. And those one hundred had better training, were battled hardened, and probably had a few insiders feeding them the force's plans. A suicide mission in other words. Of course, the Chicago brass had requested him because he had a reputation as a miracle worker. It was bullshit. He was lucky, really lucky, and his skills saved him when his back was to the wall. He could improvise really well, and he wasn't willing to lie down and die. And despite all that, he'd still failed. Oh, not the mission, never the mission. Seven partners: Frank Knight, Juan Gonzales, Tracy Garrison, Dave Fletcher, Amy Morgan, Harry Eichleburger, and Daphne Goldstein. His partners had a way of dying, or ending up permanently injured. A sobering reminder of how they all laid it on the line every day…

His reputation with women, well, it was exactly as he said in his interview. Exactly like Belestaria. When people were under extreme pressure, they reached out for emotional connection, to reassure themselves. It was no different with him. The extreme pressures of Belestaria; the punishment, perhaps some time with the cruciartus curse, or maybe, if it was an extreme transgression, a fight with a dangerous magical creature- it pushed people together. He still remembered Maria Gutierrez and their night together before she had to kill a runespoor the next day. She didn't succeed at her task. And that was very much what gave him this reputation. People begging for comfort, for reassurance; desperate for a connection. And when you were on assignment with the CIA, you occasionally crossed paths with people like that. Add in that he acted like James Bond and he occasionally saved their lives and his reputation as a womanizer came to fruition. Of course, he enjoyed his time with them. And he was able to play the game well, good with flirting, comfortable around people. It had given him a fan club of sorts. But in the quiet moments, before the heat of the fight, he had to think, to reflect, to be at peace. This truly could be his last mission. The odds were so heavily stacked against them. He might finally see his family again. Of course he'd never know, seeing as they were at his funeral…

Phillips was done speaking. Everyone took hold of the shiny Chicago Auror's emblem; their portkey for this operation. A giant eagle with its wings spread- the American flag as the backdrop. The clock struck twelve and fifty voices as one screamed "ACTIVATE!"

* * *

Harry landed on his feet and immediately dived to his right to avoid the oncoming reductor curse. He was using an overturned fishing drum as cover. Bodies littered the ground. He estimated that they were down to about thirty aurors. They needed to regroup. Curses and gunfire were flying in every direction. It was like a twisted game of dodge ball- one they were losing badly. Harry decided to survey the scene while he was in cover.

They were on the outside of a warehouse. The mob clearly knew they were coming. They had barricaded the warehouse and had opened slits to fire out of. The warehouse, gray and bleak on the side except for the windows were the mobsters were firing from, also appeared to be heavily warded. And the aurors were in the killing field which would otherwise be called a parking lot. Harry decided the time for finesse was over. He began using one of his best spells. "_Golem Mobilius_," he incantated repeatedly. And within seconds, five gigantic golems were at his command. This was some of the most difficult magic to perform; but some of the most effective. He willed them to start smashing down the walls. The mobsters began aiming their gun and spell fire at them, to minimal effect, and while they were on the defensive, he went from downed body to downed trying to heal any who weren't dead. With the result that his golems had smashed a way in, and he'd gotten twelve aurors back into action nearly ten minutes later. Unfortunately, one of the dead was Captain Phillips; they were without a leader. They numbered thirty seven. Harry signaled to gather the remaining troops together behind cover so they could regroup.

"Captain Phillips didn't make it," he said without preamble to the assembled troops. "But we still have a job to do. Harper," the irritating blond haired man had tears in his eyes from the death of his mentor, "Lead squad one to the northern end of the warehouse. Williams," he said turning to the blond woman, Linda Williams, another decorated veteran, on loan from the FBI, "Take squad two and head for the southern end of the warehouse. I'll grab squad three and we'll head for the middle and that's where we'll all meet up." And a few seconds later Tom was walking through the wreckage of the warehouse with his squad of eight in tow. His squad had been the hardest hit.

As he entered the bottom level of the warehouse right into a hallway with a bunch of barrels and crates, he saw a cadre of mobsters; ten or so. He went for his handgun before they had time to react and two were down- shots to the head; he was a good marksman. His troops got the hint and they opened fire while taking cover. The mobsters were much less skilled than Tom imagined. He decided it was time for a distraction, before the mobsters could call on reinforcements and pin them down. He willed himself into one of his animagus forms; a jaguar. And his sleek black body leapt over his cover and right to the mobster's strongpoint. Before they knew what was happening, two were down, blood staining the gray cement floor. Another two met their end at his claws before the other four remaining mobsters finally regained their senses and opened fire at him. Unfortunately, in their haste to defeat the visible threat, they'd forgotten about the aurors giving him covering fire. And soon, they too were no longer among the living. Harry returned to human form and signaled his squad as they moved up the stairs, trying to gain a height advantage.

At the top of the stairs, another two Mafioso's met them. "_Aqua Eructo_," Tom shouted and the mobsters were knocked off their feat. A couple of cutting curses later and their lives were over. His squad charged forward from room to room, killing any gangster who crossed their path. Eighteen dead men later, and they had reached the inner sanctum of the warehouse. And surprisingly, they met up with William's and Harper's squads, minus a few members but still ready for action.

"Those golems saved our asses," said Harper beckoning to the large monstrosities Harry had commanded to cover the other squads. "We compared numbers, we think there are forty left." Williams nodded.

"We killed about thirty, so that means the ten most skilled killers are waiting in that room. Alright, Williams, Harper, take your squads and circle around. When I give the word, we all charge in; through smashed walls or something. But I'm going in first to assess the situation. If I don't come out- fire when ready," Tom finished darkly. Both Scott and Linda made moves to protest. "I knew what I signed up for. But there are some answers I want. If I die getting them, then I die in peace." They both nodded, grimacing. Tom's squad circled around to cover the main doorway while Scott and Linda got their squads into position. Tom took a deep breath, his hand on the doorknob, and with a great deal of trepidation, he turned it and entered the room.

And just as he expected, the ten best killers were in the boardroom, their guns and wands pointed at the door. However, a familiar face recognized him, and signaled his men not to fire. He turned to Tom.

"Well, well, Agent Stevens. What a pleasure to meet again." The speaker was an older Caucasian man with gray hair neatly parted in the middle. His eyes were covered by sunglasses. He wore a crisp dark suit, and held in his hand a polished brown wand. His face was scarred in several places, and his nose appeared to have been broken at some point. He spoke with a clear accent that only gave a hint to Southern heritage. And he had the most menacing smile upon seeing Tom. "So, I suppose, for me and my associate's sake, I should be courteous and polite. How did you like your reception?"

"It was fine, Eroadi. Nothing like a brush with death to get the day going," Tom shot back.

The man called Eroadi laughed. "I'd forgotten about that handy ability to create golems you have. It smashed through our defenses. This should have been a slaughter. Instead, you're close to victory." He was silent for a second. "But I have to ask, why did you come to see the condemned man? What troubles you, my son?" He finished with cutting sarcasm.

"I needed to speak with you in the place of others; Knight, Gonzales, Garrison, Fletcher, Morgan, Eichleburger, and Goldstein. I've lost seven partners trying to bring you in while you traveled round the world selling arms, bribing government officials, operating as a middle man for various criminal enterprise, and doing other various illegal shit. There's one thing I have to know: why?"

Eroadi laughed again. "Why not is a better question? Gun-running; well, there is always conflict. And war needs arms, Arms I can procure and handle. It's not like my getting them guns starts the war. No, they need to want to kill before I get involved. Bribing people; well, how else am I to operate if I don't persuade people to work with me. Being a middle man; well if people see me as a fine negotiator and are willing to pay me for my services, who am I to say no? Just like who are you to say no if the CIA gives you a paycheck to kill. And all the "other various illegal shit"; you mean like murder, extortion, drug smuggling, robbery, racketeering and everything else? I'm a criminal; I make no apologies for that. It's how I was brought up, what I'm best at; just like you're the CIA's best agent, despite only being sixteen. If you're good at something, and born to do it, then you do it, or you suffer, whether that talent is catching fish, or selling arms from country to country. And as for your partners; well, what do you want to hear? I took pleasure in killing them? No, I didn't; this is a dirty business, and I've always treated it as such. That I'm happy they're dead. Well, my operations ran smoother after their deaths, but in the long-term, I probably won't survive to see tomorrow. I suppose the real question you want to ask me is; do I regret it? And the answer: no, I am what I am, for better or worse. I made my choice, as you made yours. But as I told you in Seoul and Cairo, you would have made a good criminal."

Tom was satisfied with the answers. It gave him a kind of weird inner peace. He'd hunted Aramis Eroadi all over the world, and this Chicago warehouse where he'd tried to set up and get his business back together; well it was over. One way or another. One thing about Eroadi; the man had style. He'd come to respect his abilities; even if they had gotten a lot of people killed. And he'd had a weird relationship with the man. He'd treated this like a game; like he didn't care. He'd talked with the man half a dozen times while pursuing him. And every time, more answers and more questions. But this was it; one way or another- this perverse relationship would be over by the end of the day. Tom nodded at Eroadi, a sort of understanding passing between him.

And then he signaled before the remaining mobsters had time to react. Three holes were smashed in the walls and aurors poured into the room with gunfire and spellfire as the mobsters were caught in the crossfire. Before they could do react, seven were cut down, leaving only two and Eroadi standing. Tom cut the distance between himself and Aramis, and then he placed his wand at Eroadi's throat. He said a silent prayer as he cast a cutting curse at Eroadi's throat, and the man fell backwards, a content look on his face as the blood staining his suit. The other mobsters were dead as well. It was over.

* * *

"Thank you for coming with me, Tom," said a grateful Scott, the emotion still evident in his tone. They were outside the funeral parlor; today was Captain Phillips funeral. It had just finished; his wife and two kids had been there. And Scott needed to go to pay respects to his mentor. "I'm really grateful. For everything. Want to grab some dinner? My treat." he asked hopefully. Tom's performance in battle had really reversed the man's potion on him. He now looked at Tom as a sort of mentor.

"Sure," agreed Tom. He knew Scott would need some company; he was still emotional from the funeral. Scot hailed a cab, and soon they were eating in a dinner. It was a simple dinner; lots of chairs and tables decked in red, and good food. It was a popular Auror hangout. And with a few of his favorite privacy charms, a safe place to chat.

They had chatted for a while about Captain Phillips life and his mainly achievements, from his time as a beat cop to his time as a patrol officer. Scott had just finished a humorous story about one time when a young Captain Phillips had pulled over a speeding motorist. The motorist had been irate, and had launched a profanity filled tirade at Phillips. Finally he'd had enough. He called the man's wife to come pick him up.

"And when she got there, the poor woman starting screaming at him, shouting how this was the last straw and she should have listened to her mother, and that she wanted a divorce. And Captain Phillips had to stand there and listen to all of this. Finally he stopped their shouted. 'Lady', he said, 'Either you take your husband home while his car is impounded, or I call my wife and you get to argue with her.' And what do you know, she did take him home. That was always one Captain Phillips used to tell to any new patrol officer, to show them how weird their job could get." He was silent for a few moments. "I wanted to apologize, I know I did a few days ago before our mission, but I am really sorry about the Veritaserum interrogation."

Tom sighed and rubbed his face; he'd been expecting this. "I know you just trusted your instincts. And I know my age, and my record, makes me look suspicious. I understand that. But you have to understand; sometimes you don't get second chances. You can't just question a guy on a whim, because your instincts tell you to do so. You need facts; real solid facts. But in that case, I think you were right. If you had any doubts about my loyalty before a high risk operation, act on it. Just in case. Because if you didn't trust my orders, we might have lost more than twenty people," Tom finished.

"What was Belestaria like?" asked Scott.

"Belestaria- there's a reason they are considered the best. They get results; at any cost. Some of the people in my class didn't make it. Simple insubordination or being behind in classes is punished by the Cruciartus curse." Scott gasped. "More severe infractions- pranks, stealing; you were pitted against a magical creature- the more severe the infraction, the more dangerous the beast. I had to do that once for getting into a fight with a classmate. They pitted me against a demiguise. It was a tough kill, seeing as it was invisible and all, but that made me resolve to never bend the rules again. In an environment like that- high pressure, high punishment- people reached out for emotional support. That's where my "Casanova" reputation started. But in the end, I got stronger, much stronger. Strong enough to work with the aurors, the hit-wizards, the CIA and the FBI at thirteen."

"What was your work in the CIA like?" asked Scott.

"I can't discuss that, Scott," remarked Tom.

Scott reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folder, the emblem of the CIA on it. "They sent me an offer after out last mission. I accepted. They directed me to you for general inquiries." He handed Tom a sheet of paper.

Tom looked it over and laughed. "Congratulations, Scott. I have a meeting with the brass tomorrow before I head back home. They want to retain me to monitor the situation in magical Britain. Anyway, they get you some standard field training after a series of tests to prove our competence. Then, when they send you out into the field; you're on your own- lots of operation freedom. And lots of operations- there's always something they need you to do. Of course, there's almost always a direct superior you answer to- a handler if you will. Wherever they assign you, you'll have a handler- someone who gives you orders and objectives. It's a demanding high risk job. I wish you the best of luck."

Scott leaned forward. "I want to ask you something really personal- if you don't mind, sir?"

Tom didn't see the harm in it. The man was about to join the CIA. "Sure, go ahead."

"What happened to your parents?" he asked without hesitation.

Tom took a breath. "You're right, that is personal. Suffice it to say, I don't know. The letter they left at the orphanage said my name was Mark Anderson. I put out feelers from time to time, but I haven't learned much."

Scott looked at him. "I'm sorry. It's just- well kinda hard to believe that a kid like you," he saw Harry's look, "I don't mean that negatively- but a guy like you, skilled, talented, wealthy- you're family is gone."

"I don't think about it too much. Someday, I'll get some answers. But I'm willing to wait until then. As for the right now, I'm my own man- a loner," Tom deflected. He decided a subject change was in order. "So, are you excited to begin working with the CIA?"

* * *

"Ah, come in, Agent Stevens." The speaker was a tall man with charcoal black hair, dressed in a pricey, crisp suit. His light blue eyes flickered to the door. He was sitting at a desk, reviewing some paperwork. Tom Stevens walked in.

"Good morning sir. You asked me to stop by before my flight back to Great Britain," Tom said politely.

"Take a seat, Tom," said his handler. "Can I get you a drink?"

"A coke, please?" requested Tom. A second later, his coke appeared on the magical coaster.

His handler put down the paperwork. "You are Tom Stevens, alias Harry Potter, three year veteran CIA officer?" he asked.

"Yes sir, clearance code Delta 21055," replied Tom.

The man smiled. "Excellent, it is really you, Agent Stevens. Now then, we are, in lieu of your request, assigning you to British operations-"

"Begging your pardon sir," Tom interrupted, "But there are no British operations. We have not conducted CIA-Magical operations in Britain- close door or otherwise- for nearly fifty years."

His superior officer fixed him with a smile. "You are correct. But the spike in dark activity there- the Philosopher's Stone Incident, the Chamber of Secrets incident, and the escape of Sirius Black- means we have to resume operations there. And you are the new head of British operations. Now then, we are granting you a licensed to kill- within reason. If your actions cross boundaries- we will revoke it and fly you back here. And our conduction of operations is with the full knowledge and support of MI5, MI6, the British Prime minister, and the British Unspeakables. You are to liaison with these offices, and possibly even join the Unspeakables in the name of cooperation."

"Thank you sir, for the promotion, and I'll do my best not to disappoint you. Are any, partners, subordinates, or superiors joining me?"

"Your superior is me, and I'll be here in Langley. You are not being partnered with anyone. As for subordinates, we'll send people along once you get operations set up. We already have your operations protocol and mission parameters set up. Do you have a cover?"

"Yes, I'm returning to Britain to meet with Potions Master Severus Snape. I will need to inform him to maintain my cover. But I will be at Hogwarts playing the role of a student working towards a potions and alchemy mastery. I can keep a good eye on the situation that way because the three incidents you've mentioned have been centered on Hogwarts. You're aware of the Tri-"

"-Wizard tournament happening at Hogwarts this year. Yes, except that five groups have signed on. Durmstrang, Hogwarts, Salem, Beauxbatons, and a champion sponsored by Nicolas Flamel- a wildcard if you will. Seeing as the noted alchemist has ties to all four regions, this is his chance to show them all up. We have reliable intelligence that you will be his wildcard pick." He concluded.

"What is the agency's position, supposing you're right and he asked me to participate?" Tom asked carefully.

"If he asks, because of his position in the British magical world, accept. Do your best. Because Flamel, for obvious reasons, is a key piece to the success of this operation and the continued peace of the region. Any more questions, Agent Stevens?"

"No sir," responded Tom.

"Good. We have your identification papers, and certain items that may be invaluable to our journey. My assistant," his assistant Charley entered the room, "will take you to your papers and gear and show you how to work them. You are dismissed."

Tom got up and followed Charley to the equipment room. He entered the room to see it was bare except for a table with items placed on it.

"Your papers, sir," said Charles beckoning to his identification papers. "All of this paperwork is for underage magic use- British laws are very strict on that subject- your 'license to kill' your agency identification, your apparition license," Tom's eyes rose, "Yes the British actually monitor that, your passport, your other various licenses, and your sealed orders- open when you arrive, sir. Now then, moving on, that ring," he said beckoning to a ring with an American eagle on its crest, "is both an emergency portkey and a communication device. It is also a poison detector. There is your usual supply of potions- brew more if needed- your trunk- 'you are an apprentice'," he said at Tom's look. "It is a multi-compartment trunk, so you can put your books and personal items in it. We threw in a top-of-the-line warding kit, we know of your proficiency with runes and it might come in handy. We also have a few experimental items that our boys in the R&D department cooked up. This," he said pointing at a silver looking box, "Is a laptop that we have re-engineered to work while in magical fields. That," he said pointing at a miniature cell-phone, "Is a cell-phone that will work in a magical field. And finally, these," he said gesturing at five silver dots and a device that looked like a tape recorder, "Are an experimental listening set; one that works around magic. You are also going to receive the best standard gear we have for this mission- knife, pistol, and body armor. Are there any questions?" Tom shook his head no. "Then you are dismissed."


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Thanks' to all the positive feedback I received for last chapter. Unfortunately, the next few chapters are going to be delayed due to a combination file corruption, plot/narrative/direction disatisfaction. The translation is that it will probably be a little over three weeks before I can get my posting schedule for this story back on track. I apologize for the inconvenience. Anyway, I do not own Harry Potter.

Chapter One: Going Home

"The captain has turned on the fasten seatbelt sign as we are now beginning our final approach. Please return your seats to the upright position…" Harry tuned out the standard airplane announcement. He'd heard it a million times. And it always seemed to interrupt his sleep. He stretched a bit as the announcement continued. Thank god the agency had sprung for first class for him. He hated coach; especially when you were on assignment immediately after exiting the plane. And no matter how much faster they were, international Portkeys just plain sucked.

His carry-on luggage was in the overhead compartment. His trunk was shrunken down and hidden on his person. His baggage, which contained his clothing, was in the airlines baggage compartment. Everything looked normal. He smiled.

He was ready for this. It was a great honor to be put in charge of an entire operation, especially so young. And his superiors had every reason to be worried; the situation didn't look good. Britain looked like it might be a hotbed of dark activity inside of a year. And from all his briefings, he knew the Unspeakables, and the British Secret Service had specifically requested American aid in monitoring the situation. Dark times looked to be ahead…

But his first order of business was to get the ball rolling. He had a meeting with Nicolas Flamel right after he arrived. And after a day or two of getting everything together, he'd meet with Severus Snape. And by then, he'd make contact with Langley and the operation would proceed from there.

The CIA had offered to get him a hotel room. Harry planned to buy a house in Britain; he had plenty of money as compensation for all his successful missions, and his numerous performance bonuses. And he wanted property in his homeland, even if his memories here weren't great…

His parents; well that would be interesting. He wondered how his parents, if he could even consider them that, were. His father, auror captain James Potter, and his mother, Lily Potter, a retired unspeakable; and his brother Jonathan Potter. His brother was known as the boy-who-lived, for surviving the killing curse. Despite the fact that Harry was the one who'd survived it… He knew he'd cross paths with them at some point. He didn't really care. They weren't his family any longer.

There were lots of notable figures he'd need to keep an eye on. Cornelius Fudge: the minister of magic, whose dossier listed several allegations of corruption. Lucius Malfoy: An ex-member of the terrorist organization known as the Death Eaters, an influential politician. Albus Dumbledore: Revered headmaster of Hogwarts, known as the defeater of Grindlewald, who had a much darker involvement with him, all of which was well-documented by the CIA. There was also supposition in his file about his manipulative nature. Barty Crouch: the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation who been one step away from becoming minister in 1981 except his chances were torpedoed by a political scandal involving his son being caught with a crowd of Death Eaters. Sirius Black: A mass-murderer who'd succeeded at breaking out of Azkaban prison last year. There was a lot of suspicious activity in his file; his being sent to prison without a trial or questioning, the lack of evidence in the case, and the notable figures who'd spoken out against him: Albus Dumbledore, Cornelius Fudge, and Lucius Malfoy, and Barty Crouch. He was also listed as being a former friend of James Potter. Truly, they all looked dirty. And he was being given a broom by the CIA and Unspeakables and was being told to clean the mess up…

Soon he was off the plane and had his luggage collected. It only took an hour at Heathrow. He finally walked out into the departure area. He was expecting a car. He wasn't disappointed. There at the departure area was someone with a sign that read "Thomas Stevens", with an eagle underneath the sign. Tom walked up to him.

"Are you Mr. Stevens?" asked a man with balding grey hair. He was slightly overweight, but dressed very well.

"Yes, sir, I am. Are you my driver?" Tom asked.

"Yes, we do have to get moving, Nicholas expects you for breakfast." That was the code phrase Tom needed to be on the watch for; it meant that there were no complications.

It was an hour drive from Heathrow to Nicholas Flamel's London apartment. An hour Tom used to catch up on his sleep.

* * *

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Thomas," greeted Nicolas Flamel. He looked very good for six-hundred and sixty eight. He was a tall man with all gray hair neatly cut and parted in the middle. He had a weathered but kindly face and silver eyes. He was dressed in a robe of gold.

"Nicolas, what a pleasure to see you," said Thomas, shaking the man's hand and giving him a hug in return.

"Come, join me for breakfast," Nick commanded as Thomas took a seat and dug into the banquet of cereal, pancakes, waffles, toast, some fruit, several varieties of juice, and milk. While Tom ate, he studied the room. It was eloquently fashioned, in a Victorian style. The dining table was made of redwood, and the silverware was gold. The floor was hardwood, with several ornate rugs strategically placed to make getting up and sitting down in the matching redwood chairs easy. Against one of the walls were a set of bookcases; tomes on public display. Against the opposite wall were beautiful paintings; a landscape, and two portraits. One Monet, one Degas, and one Rembrandt; fit for a man of history such as Nicolas. At either end of the dining room were windows looking out onto the London streets. It was truly an apartment that was worthy of one of the most legendary alchemists.

"How was your flight Tom?" asked Nicolas taking a sip of his tea.

"Fine, Nick. Though I sometimes do hate air travel almost as much as I hate all forms of magical travel. Where's Perenelle?" asked Tom.

Nick chuckled. "She's visiting her relatives in France. She'll be back later, which will give us a chance to talk. So, Tom…"

"Is this the part where you recruit me into the Unspeakables, High Master Pheonix?" asked Tom. Only agencies like the CIA knew of Flamel's status as head of the Unspeakables. He had been for nearly five hundred years.

Nick raised an elegant gray eyebrow. "You're very well informed, Tom," he complimented.

"Sorry old chap, but the CIA likes to keep tabs on what they're dealing with. And I'll happily join the Unspeakables in the spirit of cooperation. But be aware that I am in charge of setting up CIA operations. Because frankly, this country seems on the brink of civil war; one that it will drag its neighbors into," Tom said, taking a bite of toast.

"And have you heard about the Triwizard tournament?" asked Nicolas.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't really call it Triwizard. I mean four schools plus your own wildcard champion and seven tasks. The number three isn't involved anyone in that equation," countered Tom.

"I'm sure Washington already briefed you on the fact that you will be my champion for this tournament," said Nick nonchalantly.

"Yeah, they mentioned that if you said to do it, I should. Excellent cover, by the way. Of course, I'll already be at Hogwarts; Potion Master's apprentice, and all that. By the way, my briefings were a bit- limited. Could you answer a few questions for me?" asked Tom.

"Sure, fire away."

"Okay, I read the dossier of eight prominent figures I might come into contact with: Barty Crouch, Cornelius Fudge, Lucius Malfoy, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore, and the Potters. Can you elaborate a little?"

"Well, I'm sure you already know about your family, so-"

Tom cut him off. "Actually, the thing about being placed in an orphanage is that I **don't **know about my family. But I am likely to cross paths with all of them at some point. Seriously, I need information about all of them; from a man who's seen them all firsthand."

Nicolas chuckled. "Well, alright. If Dumbledore's file gave you the impression that he's manipulative and controlling; that would be because he is. He came to me three years ago claiming my Philosopher's stone was in danger. So I let him put it in a high security Gringotts vault. Then he changed his mind and withdrew it from the vault, and brought it to Hogwarts. Then, next June, he'd told me it had been destroyed in an accident. Thank you for all your help with creating a new one, Tom. The information I received after the fact was that he willfully destroyed it for "the greater good." You know where that phrase comes from and who he worked with. So, like I said, controlling and manipulative."

He took a drink of tea and then continued. "Crouch is basically the same as his file. So is Fudge except that he had gotten a little more power hungry in recent years, possibly due to Malfoy's influence. Malfoy is Death Eater scum. Black; well the dossier speaks for itself- a known serial killer with no evidence and a lot of public opinion to back up the title. And finally the Potters." He took a breath.

"Since the attack by Voldemort, their son, Jonathan Alexander Potter has been known as the boy-who-lived and the vanquisher of Voldemort. Their other son was abandoned- we already know what happened there. They also have a daughter who is a year younger than John, Sarah Rose Potter. She is a good student and by all accounts Lily reincarnated. It is assumed that Lily Potter was pregnant with her when Voldemort attacked. After Sarah, they have three other children, 12, 11, and 10- all daughters; Alexis Jane Potter, Samantha Julian Potter and Michelle Amelia Potter. James and Lily, well near death didn't agree with them. They have acquired an unhealthy degree of paranoia and fear for their lives. They are heavily aligned with Albus Dumbledore. And their son, well; he is, no other word for it, arrogant. My records show he is the Gryffindor seeker, good Quidditch talent, a mediocre student overall, though that could be from lack of application at school, heavily involved in the three incidents that precipitated the CIA response, and good at improvisation in the heat of battle." He saw Harry's pained look and decided to end the briefing. "Any more questions Tom?"

"Yeah, where can I buy a house?" asked Tom. He saw Nicolas's look. "I have a lot of money and I wanted to buy some property in a wizarding village."

"See the Hogsmead realtors then. He'll have what you're looking for," said Nicolas. "What are your plans, Thomas?"

"Well, after I head to Hogsmead, buy a house, and unpack?" he clarified with Nicolas. "Then I plan to be inducted into the Unspeakables as your American contact- 'Uncle Sam.'"

Nicolas burst into laughter. Tom smiled. "And of course, as the American contact, it will be my duty to inform the Unspeakables that a dangerous American hit-wizard/ CIA operative named Thomas Stevens has arrived in the country, and he must be tailed with all due haste…"

Nicolas Flamel was roaring with laughter. He had to wipe a tear from his eye. The play Harry was making was quite brilliant if he could say so, and he could because he'd invented the very espionage tactic Harry was going to use "Well then, "Uncle Sam", welcome to the Unspeakables. I will have the paperwork ready by the time you finish shopping for a home. I'll also get you my level of clearance- in the spirit of cooperation, of course." He winked.

"Good day High Master Pheonix," said Tom shaking his hand.

"See you later, Uncle Sam," he replied with a straight face.

* * *

"All right ladies and gentlemen. May I have the pleasure of introducing our new liaison with the Americans- agent Uncle Sam," said Nicolas Flamel- alias High Master Pheonix- to the assembled room of Unspeakables. All of them, the leader and Tom included, had their hoods up; hoods with a charm on them to scramble voices and make individual identification impossible. Tom looked around the room as the assembled Unspeakables, fifty in all, clapped politely for him. He made his way to where Nicolas stood to address the assembled.

"It's a pleasure to meet you all and I hope we can all work together. Now then, the spike in dark activity- Philosopher's Stone, Chamber of Secrets, Sirius Black escape- has prompted America to reestablish a presence here with British support. Of course, you all know the rumors of dark activity that may be planned for the Quidditch world cup. We will be keeping a good eye on that and reacting accordingly. But there are a few other things you should be made aware of. A muggle by the name of Frank Bryce has disappeared in the village of Little Hagleton. The village Voldemort's," there was a collective chill and shudder through the room that Tom ignored, "Parents both hail from. For that reason alone, that village needs to be monitored. We are also concerned about Bertha Jorkins, a ministry official who vanished while on holiday in Albania. She had knowledge about upcoming ministry events- mainly the Tri-Wizard Tournament- that may compromise us if it falls into the wrong hands. Lastly, but possibly most importantly, the CIA has sent a man named Thomas Stevens here to Britain for some unknown purpose." A dossier appeared in front of each Unspeakable in the room. "If you read his file, he is considered one of the most dangerous people in the world." A projection flickered in front of Tom that displayed him walking through muggle London. "He has put in work for the American Aurors, FBI, CIA, and hit-wizards. His reputation is not to be overstated. And his presence here is a concern, especially seeing as he holds dual American-British citizenship. We don't know his purpose, his motives, or his plans. But we do know how skilled he is. That is why the Head of this Department will be organizing a tailing operation on him. He is someone that it is in your interests to watch closely. I turn it back to you, High Master Pheonix…"

"Thank you for your report Uncle Sam and we looked forward to working with you. Now then…" Thomas observed the Unspeakables closely. He was certain that Dumbledore had a spy here, and that dossier everyone received would be on his desk shortly. The entire reason Tom had made this play. If Dumbledore's attention was focused on him, then when he paid a visit to Snape tomorrow, Dumbledore would bend over backwards to keep him in the castle and under his watchful eye. He would be granted inside access to the epicenter of recent dark activity. And it would give him the added bonus of potentially uncovering Dumbledore's spy, or spies as the case may be, and turning them. Excellent.

Finally, the meeting finished and Nicolas called Tom into his office.

"Here you are; your badge, your I.D., and all relevant and irrelevant files, Uncle Sam," Said Nicolas. "Did you find a house?"

"Yes a simple wooden house on the outskirts of town that I've already warded, and set myself up in. Good price too. Thank you for all your assistance, Pheonix," easily replied Tom.

Nicolas took off his hood and fixed him with a look. Tom already knew this was just for confirmation's sake. "Why did you give them those dossiers, Tom?"

Tom removed his hood. "To clean house while we have some time. I suspect, Dumbledore, and other groups have spies here, spies who will read the dossiers and then give their agents individual orders. But the big play was for Dumbledore." Nicolas's eyes rose. "When he sees that file, he will attempt to keep a watch on me. And I need to be at Hogwarts, what with its recent history of dark activity. And his desire to achieve that end, keeping an eye on me for whatever reason, makes him play into my hands."

Nicolas broke out in a laugh at his having guessed right. "You've got it all planned out, Tom?" _Because if you don't, I do_. Tom nodded. "A word of advice; Dumbledore is a crafty manipulative bastard who truly believes everything he does is for his vision of "a greater good." Be wary when he finally decided what place you have in his vision."

Tom entered his new home, and pulled off the Unspeakable hood and robes. Their getup made him feel like he was in a cult… Back in America, the style of dress meant suits and ties whenever you had administrative work and body armor or something similar when you were going into battle. Here in Britain, they loved robes. Just one of the stark differences between both cultures. And Tom couldn't help but feel a little condescending towards the British magical world. Corruption was rampant, the interests of the common man not represented by their own government, ignorance ran roughshod, and their own culture seemed… backwards. The British had not even made any attempts at getting muggle items to work around magic. Every other leading magical nation had, why couldn't they? He found himself missing America. Oh, they had problems, corruption, special interest groups, and a government ineffective in some critical ways. But Britain seemed to already be in the middle of a meltdown. He realized there would probably be a reform movement sometime in the future. Something that could really make his job difficult. On the other hand, aiding a successful reformation of the government could reform relations- which between magical Britain and magical America were decidedly poor- and clean his homeland up a bit. He felt like he was caught in the middle of a thunderstorm, his will the deciding factor between clashing forces. And he'd only been in Britain one day…

He looked around his house. The interior was nicely decorated, with plenty of paintings and furniture he'd collected adorning his rooms. The house had five rooms, the living room where he currently sat, the kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom, and a hobby room. The living room was where he'd placed couches and pictures of landscapes, as well as a few bookcases which he stocked with titles that would give a visitor a sense that he was intelligent. The kitchen consisted of a table for six, a preparation counter, a place to store food, and a place to store dishes. His bathroom was standard. His hobby room was where he kept all his auror/hit-wizard/CIA equipment and his collection of items, and where he could practice, experiment, and keep in shape. He'd made sure to give the room a spare warding scheme to make sure no one could ever enter without his express permission. And his bedroom held a king-sized bed and a closet he stocked his clothes and linens in. The house was bathed in wards: anti-apparition, anti-muggle, anti-portkey, concealment wards, impenetrable wards, intruder detection wards, monitoring wards, a blood ward, and a personalized fidelius ward. When he first thought about all the wards he wanted to use, he had to remind himself that it wasn't paranoia if they were out to get you. Shaking himself, Tom got up and began to get ready for bed. He had a busy day tomorrow, one he'd need to be at his best for…

* * *

"Ah, Nymphadora, what can I do for you this fine evening?" Albus Dumbledore said in a cheerful greeting as she entered his office. She took as seat as she lowered her hood, confirming her identity, and placed a folder on Dumbledore's desk.

"Please, Headmaster, please; for the love of god- CALL ME TONKS!" she screamed.

"I'm sorry; I couldn't hear you, Nymphadora. Would you please repeat that," he said kindly. Dumbledore took the folder and thumbed through it while Tonks ranted and screamed at him for using her first name. He calmly poured both of them a cup of tea.

"So, how was the meeting?" asked Dumbledore genially.

"High Master Pheonix introduced an American who is going to be working closely with the Unspeakables. This 'Uncle Sam' alerted us to three situations; Frank Bryce's death, Bertha Jorkins disappearance, and finally, Thomas Stevens, an American over here for some unknown purpose," reported Tonks as she took a sip of tea; she was thirsty from the long meeting.

"Ah, I remember Tom. We dueled with each other at the World Dueling Competition a few years back. He beat me handily as I recall…" he trailed off. Tonks spit out here tea, a shocked look on her face.

"He beat you in a duel?" she asked in a whisper. Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "Now I know why he's considered such a dangerous individual."

"You really should read these dossiers, Nymphadora. But young Tom was a very powerful wizard- equaling myself perhaps. What are the Unspeakables going to do about him?" he asked quietly.

"The American contact urged us to tail him. He had almost no information on Stephens aside from his dossier. I have the first shift tomorrow. He recently bought a house in Hogsmead, so I'll wait outside until he emerges and follow him," Tonks replied confidently.

"A sound plan, Nymphadora," she looked ready to start badgering him about using her surname so he held up a hand for silence, "But I suggest you come into contact with him. He is a dangerous variable, and we need him under control, or at least to know what we're dealing with, so chat him up, maybe get breakfast or lunch with him, though dinner would probably be best." She nodded, though she looked unhappy. "Now, what about the American contact."

"He's here because of the recent dark incidents in our country. He seemed energetic and business-like," Tonks replied.

"Please keep tabs on him as well, Nymphadora. Now then, I am sure you have plans this evening, so I bid you goodnight," said Dumbledore kindly, ending the conversation.

Tonks drained her cup before she stood up and walked to the door. "Goodnight, headmaster," She called as she exited.

* * *

Tom had already dressed for the day and was getting ready to see Snape. He'd sent an owl ahead to request a one o'clock appointment and had just received a confirmation. Tom had made sure he was dressed to impress; a black jacket with grey pants and a clean white undershirt underneath his jacket. He was debating the merits of wearing a tie, but decided against it. Once he'd finished his lunch in the Three Broomsticks around noon, he began heading up to the castle. He noticed a pretty woman with dark hair, dark, twinkling eyes, and a pale, heart shaped face trying to inconspicuously follow him as he walked up the road towards the castle. That must be the person the Unspeakables had tailing him today. He pretended not to notice as he continued to walk to Hogwarts. Her willingness to follow him onto the castle grounds led him to believe this was Dumbledore's person in the Unspeakables. Only someone the headmaster allowed into the castle, like a student, could enter the grounds. Harry waited at the closed gate for someone to lead him up to the castle. He sensed his tail right behind him, only serving to confirm his suspicions as to Dumbledore's involvement. She seemed to want make contact; when the Unspeakable's orders had been clear- NO CONTACT!

"Good afternoon," came a cheery, bubbly voice from right behind him. Tom turned.

"Good afternoon, madam," he returned in a neutral tone that gave hint to weariness. She wanted information, for her master. "What can I do for you today?" Which was his polite way of saying why the fuck are you following me?

"Nothing, I just 'ave an appointment with the headmaster, and I thought I'd say hello," she replied. Legilimency was a complex art, one Tom had mastered, and just by looking in her eyes, he saw she was lying. Her entire purpose was to follow him. While he was meeting with Snape, she would be alerting the headmaster that Thomas Stevens was in the castle. Perfect.

"Well then, hello." At that moment the gate opened.

"Follow me," said the gruff voice of the castle caretaker, Argus Filch. Tom followed him at a brisk pace and his tail struggled to keep up. Once they reached the Heavily Hogwarts doors, Filch rounded on them. "What are you 'ere for?" he snarled.

"I have a one o'clock appointment with Potions Master Severus Snape, Mr. Filch," Tom said politley.

"Go see the headmaster brat," he spat at his tail- who gave him a look of absolute disgust- and then turned to Tom. "I'll lead you to Professor Snape's office," he said, though without the disgust he had for Tom's tail. He must have really hated her.

"Thank you, my good man," said Tom as he fell into step behind Filch. As they walked the corridors, Tom observed some of the portraits following him. After a fifteen minute walk, they arrived at Snape's office. "Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Filch. I hope you have a pleasant day," Harry said in a polite tone. Filch nodded and walked away. Taking a breath, Tom knocked softly on the office door.

"Enter," shouted a voice from within. Tom grasped the handle and opened the door. The office was exactly what a Potions Master would dream about. Plenty of ingredients in various jars in cabinets, and a supply of already finished potions were stacked around the office. And paperwork littered the desk.

Tom stepped in and pulled his wand. With a flick, the door closed, a bunch of privacy charms were applied on it, and any and all monitoring charms in the office were disabled. Snape only raised his eyebrows as Tom holstered his wand.

"Well, Thomas Stevens, what a pleasure," he stressed the word pleasure, "it is to see you again. But I must admit, I expected to see you next year."

"Well, I graduated Belestaria three years ago," Snape's eyebrows rose- no one had ever graduated Belestaria early-, "And I have been working for the last three years in America."

"Working?" Snape sneered. "Doing, what exactly, Stevens?"

"My initial apprenticeship was with the aurors, but then the hit-wizards contracted me, then the FBI, and then the CIA inducted me." He saw Snape's look. "I'm very good at my job sir."

"Indeed. So what can I do for you today, Stevens?" he asked, trying to be polite.

"First, I need to ask about your offer of a potions apprenticeship." Snape's eyebrows rose. "I was considered good with potions, but I wanted to learn from a true master of his craft; you. And you need to have a potions mastery to test for alchemy mastery. So though Nicolas Flamel has continually offered me lessons in the art, I want to learn potion making in depth before I take him up on his offer." Snape's face was blank.

"If you are willing to learn from me, I will teach you what I know. Arranging lessons will be a challeng-"

"I will reveal in due time how it won't be a challenge to arrange lessons. But for now, we need to get to the matter at hand. I trust you; I think you are a good person, despite your disposition, despite your record. But what I want to tell you requires a vow of secrecy, if you are willing, sir," Tom finished and looked at him expectantly. Snape appeared to be extremely angry.

"I thought they taught you well at Belestaria?" He sneered. "But here you are, speaking of secret matters in an office anyo-"

"I already disabled all the monitoring charms in the office and applied privacy charms to the door, sir," Harry interrupted. He saw Snape's look. "I modified the listening charms to make the headmaster believe they are still working. We have about fifteen minutes before he catches on."

Snape's expression changed to a look of mixed trepidation and delight on his face. He drew his wand and spoke clearly, "I Severus Tiberius Snape vow to keep the secrets of Thomas Andrew Stevens, born Harry James Potter, until either such time as he allows me to reveal them, or until I'm placed in my grave. So mote it be."

"So mote it be," replied Tom accepting the vow. "I always wondered if you knew who I really was, sir," he whispered.

"I know you want answers, and I don't have them all. But I will tell you what I can. After the Dark Lord's attack, your parents were extremely concerned with your brother's safety. And they thought you were a threat to it. You already had a strong command of your magic, and you seemed to have changed from your brother's attack- become darker. The day after they caught you speaking to a snake, this was a few months later, they created illusions of another Dark Lord in their head, and they put you in an orphanage. I severed my ties with them after that; Lily was not the same little woman I'd once known. But finally, when you were seven, a chance reference in a conversation at a staff meeting gave me a lead on your whereabouts. I could not let you suffer, as I did, as the dark lord did, in his childhood. The results could have been catastrophic. When I found you, I could think of but one option; an option I took. And the result of my action sits before me today," Snape concluded solemnly. Tom already expected this explanation; it was the only one that worked.

"I understand professor, really I do. And I thank you for telling me that. Now then, the next thing I need to confide in you is that I'm in Britain on behalf of the CIA." Snape's face showed genuine shock. "I'm here to get operations going in the wake of a spike in dark activity. And with this Tournament, coming here, studying for my potions mastery, and being Nicolas Flamel's champion; it's all a ruse designed to help me monitor the situation. If you are interested, my agency could recruit you, for your knowledge, skills, and abilities," Tom offered.

Snape shook his head. "I don't think I could bear to serve three masters," he commented dryly.

Tom chuckled. "I expected as much. So how have you been, professor…" they chatted for a good ten minutes about the potions guild, the newest potions developments, and what had been going on in magical Britain for the last few years. When Tom finally sensed Dumbledore heading towards the classroom, there was a noticeable movement of power within the castle- power only the headmaster could possess, he dropped the charms and signaled Snape as he headed to the door. Tom exited out into the hallway, aware Dumbledore was there watching him.

"Thank you very much for taking me on, Potions Master Snape," said Tom enthusiastically shaking his hand.

"I'll see you in September, Apprentice Stevens. I must leave you now; I have some brewing to do. Good day," he said with a final shake of Tom's hand.

Tom began walking back to the Entrance Hall. Dumbledore was following him while disillusioned; Tom was sure he'd ask him to stay for lunch. And sure enough, as Tom made a move to leave, there was Dumbledore.

"Ah, Mr. Thomas Stevens. I was just going to have lunch with my staff and a few friends. Would you care to join me?" asked Dumbledore from the Great Hall. Tom turned to look at him.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but who are you?" asked Tom, feigning confusion.

Dumbledore's face fell slightly, though he quickly masked it. "I am Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, chief mugwump of the ICW."

"Oh, didn't I defeat you at the world dueling championship? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint, sir, but I already had lunch," said Tom as he moved to the door.

"Please, Hogwarts has some delicious food, and I'm sure there are many teachers here who'd enjoy the pleasure of your company. As would the young woman you met earlier; she seemed rather enchanted by you…" Tom had to contain laughter at Dumbledore playing on his womanizer reputation. Sure, the woman from earlier, was pretty, attractive even, but it all went out the window when he considered she was a Dumbledore spy. There were plenty of equally attractive women in looks and personality who weren't pawns of the headmaster.

"I'm sorry, headmaster, but I have a previous engagement with a friend of mine," said Tom, who really wanted to have lunch with him but wanting to seem like an unwilling participant.

"Please reconsider, Thomas; I insist," said Dumbledore lightly, but with the hint of a threat in his voice. Just the opening Tom wanted.

"Alright fine, I'm sure Nick will understand. Lead the way, headmaster," said Tom. Dumbledore smiled in genuine delight and led Tom into the Great Hall, the sunny day replicated overhead. Tom quickly examined the table; the woman who tailed him earlier, a stern looking woman, a bubbly midget, a brown haired middle-aged man, his parents and his siblings, a group of red-heads, a bushy-haired girl, and a few more professors were seated at lunch. They all looked up as he and the headmaster approached.

"Good afternoon everyone; May I introduce Mr. Thomas Stevens." Dumbledore made for the chair at the head of the table and Tom went for the empty one right beside him that placed him opposite the stern woman and next to a plump, red-haired woman.

"Afternoon everyone," Tom said gruffly. He sat down at the table and pulled some meat onto his plate. He ate in silence as he felt everyone's eye on him; his aura of mystery palpable.

"So Tom," said Dumbledore, trying to strike up a conversation, "What brings you to the castle today?"

"An appointment with potions master Severus Snape, headmaster." His answer shocked everyone at the table, except the headmaster.

"I was unaware that you knew Severus Snape," replied Dumbledore gently.

"Yeah, he's a mentor of sorts. Of course, I haven't really seen him in nearly ten years, so I thought it was time to reestablish contact," Tom replied easily.

"Well then, I'm glad Severus has been able to guide you," said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm so glad you approve," replied Tom, the sarcasm evident, trying to force back his violent tendancies and not stab the twinkle out of Dumbledore's eye.

"Well, we know why he chose Snivellus as a guide," muttered a man with messy black hair and spectacles on his face- James Potter. Harry pretended to ignore him. He turned to the headmaster, abandoning the idea of lunch.

"So what can I do for you, headmaster?" he asked in a bored tone. He hadn't made any friends in the room. It wasn't his intention.

"I was wondering what your travel plans were for the next few weeks. Hogwarts is a beautiful place this time of year and the castle would love to have you," Dumbledore said genially.

"Thanks but no thanks, headmaster; I am busy for the next few weeks. However, come September, potions master Snape has agreed to take me on as an apprentice. I am hopeful that I can reside at the castle from that point on," Tom said as Dumbledore swallowed the bait.

Indeed, Dumbledore's face lit up. "Certainly, Thomas; it is no trouble. I will have the house elves refurbish a room for you."

"Thank you very much for your hospitality sir," Tom replied genially. "So, what can I do for you?"

"Well, you will understand, that with the many responsibilities I have been entrusted, knowing about the comings and goings of certain people is sometimes a burden I need to bear," Dumbledore replied in his grandfatherly tone. "Consequently, though I have done some research on you-"

"Especially after I defeated you in a duel in front of fifty thousand spectators," Tom inserted helpfully. There were many shocked looks around the table upon hearing that the disrespectful young man had bested the headmaster in a duel.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, but gave no other indication of hearing Tom's statement. "As I was saying, though I have done some research on you, I was wondering if you'd permit me the opportunity to ask you a few questions."

"Hopefully nothing of a personal nature, headmaster," Tom replied smoothly. "But I don't see the harm."

"Excellent, my boy, excellent." That put Tom's temper on edge; he hated the word "boy". "Now then, when were you born?"

Tom realized that these questions must be directed at getting Lily and James to figure out who he was; Dumbledore must have already connected the dots. "I was born July 31, 1978, sir," Harry replied. Out of the corner of his eyes, he observed Lily's eyes widening slightly.

"I understand you are a British national. Who were your parents, and where were you born?" Dumbledore continued.

"As an orphan, I have no knowledge of who my parents are, and as for a place of birth, I am uncertain to that as well. I only remember growing up in Wool's orphanage in London, though it has since closed down due to urban redevelopment," Tom replied patiently. If Dumbledore wanted to bring his true identity to light, then Tom had was going to humor the man. If, as Tom suspected he was, he was trying to use a family reconciliation to bring him to his side, then that potentially gave Tom room to operate.

Dumbledore smiled at Tom's honesty. "How did you meet Severus?"

"When I was seven, I was being picked on at the orphanage, and I banished the bully into a wall. The good potion's master saw me, and arranged an enrollment in Belestaria on my behalf," Tom replied. The significance of being a Belestaria graduate was not lost on any adults in the room.

"Yet, I understand you only attended for six years when the general enrollment period is ten," Dumbledore continued.

"They ran out of things to teach me after six years," Harry shrugged. Those who knew of Belestaria stared at him; the most advanced school in the world ran out of things to teach him! "The school was nice enough to arrange my work in America."

"Yes, you've apparently worked with a wide variety of people in America: the aurors, the hit wizards, the FBI, the CIA, and homeland security, to name a few," Dumbledore said politely.

If possible, the eyes of the people sitting at the table, besides Dumbledore and Tom, went wider still. "Unfortunately, I can't comment on any work or even possible affiliations I might have had with the above organizations. You understand, I'm sure," Tom replied easily.

"Well that information leads me to this query: what is a multi-talented individual like you doing here in Britain?" Dumbledore concluded.

Tom shrugged. "I am here to receive an apprenticeship from potion's master Snape, and to return to my roots so to speak. That's it."

Dumbledore looked at him sadly. "You're not here to find out what's become of your family?" he asked gently.

Tom decided it was time to throw a grenade into the field of play. "Fuck 'Em. Why should I care about a bunch of weak fools who couldn't recognize true talent?" Tom growled. He looked at his wristwatch. "I apologize, headmaster, but I really should be going." He stood up.

Dumbledore stood up as well. "Let me grant you the courtesy of walking you to the door."

Tom nodded and they both walked towards the castle front door. "Thank you for joining us for lunch. I look forward to seeing you come September," Dumbledore said kindly as he held the door open for Tom.

"I appreciate your hospitality, sir. I look forward to seeing you come September." _And making your life a living hell. _"Have a good evening, sir," Tom concluded as he walked out the door.

* * *

"What were you thinking, Tom?" admonished Nicolas over tea that afternoon. He was the first person Tom had invited over to his house. Tom had just finished recapping the events of the afternoon.

Tom took a sip from his fine china, the tea soothing his throat. "There were a couple of reasons I acted that way. First, my personality swings were completely by choice. By seeming sarcastic, defensive, genial, and amicable all within forty minutes, any assessment of my personality and/or psychological state will be exceedingly difficult. Second, by answering his questions, and positioning enough information so that Lily and James can follow the bread crumb trial, I have generated interest in 'turning' me, so to speak. He will believe that healing the wounds between my blood relations and me, that he will transform me into a useful pawn. Finally, with all the information I've given him, I have, despite my off-putting character, established a credit of honesty with him, despite some of the half truths and non-answers I weaved into my replies. In summation, I have generated future interest in my person, which I can use to stay at the castle and monitor any and all potential situations."

Nicolas leaned back in his chair. "Be careful Tom. Albus is crafty and conniving, a bad combination if he wants something. And he now wants something from you, either your loyalty, or your permanent absence. Be careful." The two sat in silence for several moments, lost in thoughts and plans. "So Tom, I was reviewing your list of masteries. It's very impressive. How on Earth did you get so many masteries so fast?" Nicolas asked curiously.

"The thing about Belestaria was that the first year or so, they introduced the students to every known field of magic, to see which ones they had a talent for. I had talents in a lot of fields, so I learned a lot from the school in those fields. So when I left, and got my apprenticeship with the aurors, I had lots of free time in between cases. Not only was I able to experiment and learn more about magic, but I had several opportunities to put it into practice. And as more and more agencies put work my way, and I learned more and more about magic, I was able to gain mastery in more fields. You'd be surprised how many twenty year vets with corner offices know a real nifty spell or two. So here I am with sixteen masteries. It's a large total, but the first six masteries I got I tested for in school. So it was actually ten masteries in three years," he finished taking another sip of tea.

Nicolas chuckled. "You created two of your own areas for mastery; parselmagic and mind magic. Well mind magic has always been a known area of magic."

"Yeah, but I'm the only person who decided to establish a mastery category for it. It involves exceptional proficiency in Occlumency, Legilimency, and an ability to use them to steal memories, protect your own, and communicate with others. I just established a mastery standard in that field. The field I'm really proud of is parselmagic," said Tom with a smirk.

"Ah, yes, parselmagic, a field discounted as myth for a thousand years," said Nicolas stoically as he leaned back in the chair. "That was, of course, before you proved it really existed. So, since I've heard many rumors, all of which were drivel, tell me, o' creator, what is parselmagic?"

Tom chuckled. "Yes the field is blown out of proportion sometimes." He saw Nick's look. "A lot of the time," He amended. "Here's what it really is; a wizard casting a spell either wandlessly or with a wand, or staff, or some other kind of foci, while using the serpent tongue to summon the magic. This is a field of magic that can't be done non-verbally. The thing that makes the field special is that by using snake language to cast the spell, you morph the spell, and make it different from a regularly casted spell, by infusing it with snake magic. So, if a wizard tries to shield themselves from a parselmagic curse with a basic shield charm, their shield won't recognize it and it will allow the spell through. And, by using snake speak; the spells in certain areas are much more powerful. Parselmagic wards, for example, are almost impossible to defeat without another practitioner of the art. The areas which parselmagic are especially good in are warding, healing, ritualistic magic, and some dueling magic as well. However, because of the inability to use it non-verbally, it is only useful in dueling in very select circumstances. It is a very versatile field, Nick," Tom finished.

"It is a very interesting field. And you are currently the only registered master of that field, Tom. It is an open declaration of being a parselmouth, something associated with dark wizards. That will raise red flags here in Britain, where prejudice is rampant against them. Again, because if I don't say it enough, Penny will; be careful," Nicolas finished.

"I appreciate the warning, Nick. But I will be careful. I have everything under control, and despite my record, I've never truly been in over my head," said Tom, waving off the warning.

Nicolas leaned forward. "You don't seem to understand Tom. British politics; it's a whole new ballgame. You are a junior player in the middle of a convoluted chess games. Don't think for a second that anyone of importance doesn't know you're here, or your reputation. And you say you have a plan; well, the fact that you have the game planned out invites elements of chaos to disrupt everything you're working for. Not plan survives contact with the enemy. Be on your guard."

"I will, Nick. But right now, I have to get going. If everything goes as planned, then right now my presence is required elsewhere." And with that, Tom left.

* * *

"Is all of this true, Albus?" Lily Potter breathed. She had been examining the file he had on Thomas Stevens for the last quarter of an hour. After their lunch with the man, Albus had asked her and James, and Remus to come to his office.

Remus took the file from her and began to read it cover to cover.

"What's wrong, Lily-love?" asked James as he went over to comfort her. Lily had gone pale and had a frightened look plastered on his face.

Words apparently failed her, and she was silent for several moments, as Remus finished skimming the file and handed it to James.

"Could it be possible?" the normally calm Remus Lupin choked out emotionally.

They exchanged significant glances as James looked through the file.

He looked at both of them, apparently forgetting Dumbledore was in the room. "I definitely see something odd here, but I'm not sure what it means," he confessed.

Lily clapped a hand to her head. "James, look at the date of birth," she commanded exasperatedly. He did just that. "Now look at where he grew up," he flipped to a description of his childhood home. "Now, put it all together," she finished.

He had a contemplative look for several seconds, before it finally dawned on him. "Harry!"

"Exactly, Prongs, this is apparently a file on your other son," Remus explained.

"But I thought we left him in the orphanage so that he would learn the value of getting along with different people," James asked the room.

"No James, we left him there because the headmaster pointed out his dark tendencies, and prescribed leaving him in a location where he could interact with normal people and learn to co-exist with them," Lily explained. "The other choice was Petunia's, and an orphanage had to be better than those people," she spat.

"Do you think he knows this, headmaster?" Remus asked. "Is that why he's back in Britain?"

"I can say with almost complete confidence that he didn't know that he was sitting at a table with his parents today. The reason he is back in his homeland is to obtain a potions mastery from Severus," Dumbledore replied. "However, his presence raises the question: what are we going to do about him?"

"What do you mean, professor?" asked James.

"Well, James, Harold, and I can say with confidence it is your long-lost son, has lived his life, to this point at least, as a nomad. I am uncertain he will settle down here, and I do not want his presence or absence to leave you two in emotional turmoil. In addition, I am uncertain of how he will respond to Jonathan. Whether he will feel threatened by Jonathan's reputation and magical prowess, or he could get along with him. And I am uncertain how he will react to finding out you are his parents, who have been absent from his life for twelve years," Dumbledore concluded.

"So what do you think we should do, professor?" Lily asked hurriedly.

"I believe that you should try to engage him in conversation when he next visits the castle. I think that his apprenticeship with professor Snape is an excellent opportunity for you, our esteemed Runes professor, and you," he said turning to James, "one of the finest transfiguration teachers, to interact with him. And I think that once you begin to open a line of dialog with him, then we will have a much clearer set of answers to these questions," Dumbledore finished. They were all silent for a moment. "Perhaps I'll even speak with him soon." He cleared his throat. "Now then, how is Sirius doing, James?"


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks to all who've reviewed. This story will be posted on a three week schedule, as I try and transform one of my one-shots into a full length fic. I don't own Harry Potter, and I'm only profiting via my ego.

Chapter Two: A Week In The Life

Tom was eating dinner at the Three Broomsticks that evening. Indeed, his fish and chips were delicious, as was the butterbeer, though Tom had gotten used Root Beer back in the States.

He knew the next step forward was to meet with a Dumbledore associate. And that was just what he was doing. Now that he was finished eating, he spotted the witch from earlier a few tables down. As he finished his tankard of butterbeer, and placed an order for another one, he spied her getting up from her table, and walking over to his. As he started on the new tankard, she hesitantly sat down. Tom turned his attention to her as is he just noticed her.

"We meet again, madam. What can I do for you?" Tom asked politely.

"Mr.… Stevens, was it?" she asked nervously.

"Yes, I am he," Tom replied.

"I'm Nymphadora Tonks," she introduced herself.

"Charmed," Tom replied. "So what can I do for you, Ms. Tonks?"

She smiled in relief. Tom had to mentally ask why. "I was curious about something you said during lunch today. You've beaten the Headmaster in a duel?"

"Yes. We faced each other two years ago at the world dueling tournament. I defeated him in the finals in front of fifty thousand spectators," Tom answered.

"How?" she asked blankly.

"With magic," Tom replied easily.

"But the headmaster is one of the most powerful wizards in the world!" she countered angrily.

"And I am the most powerful," Tom answered.

She stared at him. "That's pretty arrogant," she muttered.

"It might be, but at least until the next World Dueling Tournament in five years, I can say so without retribution," Tom replied.

She stood up. "Well I have to run. Perhaps I'll see you around, Mr. Stevens," she said with a wink as she began walking away.

Tom stared at her retreating form neutrally. "Perhaps."

* * *

"You know Albus, I just don't understand," remarked Remus Lupin. "I just don't know what to think about Harry being back."

"What troubles you, my boy?" asked Albus kindly. He leaned back in his chair, and idly began stroking Fawkes's head.

Remus shifted uncomfortably opposite the Headmaster. He had no idea how to articulate his suspicions, and he definitely had no idea how to do it while trying to contain his guilt at going behind his best friend's back. How he hoped he was doing the right thing. "It's just, from what I read… he's a killer!" Remus blurted out.

"I know that Remus," Dumbledore replied gently.

"No… Albus- he's a killer! He has blood on his hands! And now you want him to walk back into James and Lily's lives! What are you thinking! How's he going to take it when he finds out they're his real parents!" Remus shouted angrily as the words came pouring out of him.

"I understand your concerns, Remus. I truly do," Dumbledore replied in his kindly, wise grandfather tone of voice. "However, please, step back from this for just a second!" Remus looked ready to explode. "Yes, I have looked at his records. Yes he has many accomplishments. Yes he is clearly talented. And yes, being an orphan has probably adversely affected him. And most important of all, yes- he is a killer. I am not denying any of that," Dumbledore declared, power seeping into his voice.

The aura of might dissipated almost as soon as it began, and Dumbledore took a breath, and continued on in a voice of forced calm. "Despite the truth of all of the charges you have laid against his person, and the rather damning effect they have on any determinations of his character, he is still Lily and James's son. And despite that fact we know, with almost absolute certainty, that he is a killer: it changes nothing." Remus stared at him indignantly, and Dumbledore sighed, knowing how hard his former Defense professor was going to take this. "I remember how your parents felt right after you had been turned, Remus," Dumbledore said quietly. Remus' indignation morphed into horror. "They were afraid, that as a werewolf, you too, might someday have blood on your hands. And yet, you've never killed someone, despite the fact that you had more potential to than many others."

Dumbledore turned away. "I consider the same set of circumstances as being true to Harry. Though he may have killed before, and there is a part of him that has killed, there is also a part of him that is a peace loving man, a poor orphan yearning for his parents." He turned back to Remus, and his gaze seemed to pierce his very being. "Would you deny him that chance, Remus? You, who know the damage simple prejudice has wrought, would sit there and condemn another for the life he was forced to lead because of his circumstances?"

"I- I…. I never meant-" Remus stuttered.

"I know, Remus, I know," Dumbledore reassured him. "But this is exactly what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, what makes you uncomfortable with Harry is also what makes many prejudiced people feel the same way towards you. I had hoped, at very least, you'd have understood."

"I- I better go, Headmaster," Remus rambled, completely uncomfortable. He bolted out of his seat and rushed out of Dumbledore's office.

* * *

"Are the contractual obligations understood by both parties? Mr. Wilson?"

The brown haired man dressed in a crisp brown suit fidgeted slightly, and there was an unmistakable look of agony on his face. "I understand and accept the terms of the contract."

"Mr. Stevens?"

"I understand and accept the terms of the contract," Tom echoed. He ruffled his own suit, and resisted the urge to make his impatience known. These things always dragged on too long. With wizards, it was a very quick matter to procure…

"Both parties understand the terms of the agreement as agreed upon by Mr. Wilson, Mr. Stevens, and the city of London. Both men have already signed the necessary documentation. However, the documents still need the signature of the witnesses and the city's representative. Please come forward now," Mr. Andrews, the lawyer in charge of the proceedings commanded.

Three separate witnesses, one there on the Agency's behalf, and Mr. Edwards, London's bureaucratic representation, stepped forward to add their signatures. When all four had retreated back to their seats, Mr. Andrews spoke once more.

"All that is needed to conclude the transaction is the payment by Mr. Stevens to Mr. Edwards," Andrews droned.

Tom withdrew a check from his pocket and passed it over to Howard Edwards, the tax agent involved on London's behalf. Edwards took the check, and inspected it for five minutes. "The full completion of the deal rests on whether this check bounces or not," he stated.

"I assure you the check is good, sir. But if it will ease your worries, I could go to the bank and retrieve the necessary funds in cash," Tom offered, knowing that Edwards was as bored as he was, and just wanted to get the whole episode over with and done.

"Your offer is very kind, Mr. Stevens. However, the city of London is willing to take it on good faith that this check is valid until such time as our faith is required to be rescinded. Now then…"

"Then the Good Times Pub, located at 87 Raine Street, within London Proper, is now the property of Mr. Thomas Stevens. At this time, are there any objections?" Wilson and Edwards shook their heads, though the former looked like he'd dearly like to object. "Then the sale is concluded. Good day, gentlemen." With that, Andrews bolted for the door. He must have been as bored as Tom felt.

Before leaving, Tom turned to Steven Wilson, the unfortunate businessman whom Tom had to deal with. "I'm sorry for the way the cards fell, old chap," Tom muttered. He glanced at Edwards, whom he'd had to raise a quarter of a million to pay off. "I hope I have more fortune in managing this bar than you did." And with that, Tom left the uncomfortable topic and walked away from the depressed businessman.

Once free of the stink of bureaucracy and business dealings, Tom turned and began walking to the new bar. Or, as he now had to start thinking of it, the newest CIA Headquarters…

An hour of walking, and he was in front of the bar that had been shut down by tax and health code violations. The boards across the front looked very fashionable covering the clearly broken windows. In short, the place was a wreck.

Tom pried the boards off the front door with a makeshift crowbar otherwise known as a screwdriver. Thankfully, there was an open hardware store in the area. Twenty minutes of struggling and Tom was inside. If he thought the outside looked uninviting, then that went a hundred times over for the inside of this dump.

Broken glass, turned over tables, scorched floors, rancid odors, and many different varieties of insect living comfortably in the debris. In his mind's eye, Tom was having trouble even imagining what this place would have looked like when it was a welcoming and hospitable tavern. Across from the entryway to the pub, was the back-room door, right next to the cut out for the Men and Ladies room. Close to the left of the entryway was the bar. The remainder of the floor was supposed to be an all drinking area, with an upper level for dancing, though Tom noted that the staircase would need a lot of work to be capable of carrying anyone.

And the damndest thing of all was that Tom couldn't just whip out his wand and fix everything. If he did, people would notice, and the idea behind a Secret Agent Headquarters was that it should seem ordinary to the average person. So that meant he either had to hire some interior designers… he involuntarily shuddered; no, not happening. Or, he was going to have to bring in some friends and pretend they were renovating.

Tom shifted attention away from that minor dilemma, and walked into the back-rooms. At least the former-owner kept his own office clean, Tom mused as he drew his wand. And at least here, no one could see, or note, his use of magic. A few waves and mutterings later, and his office was much larger. A few more waves, and the cobwebs and rubbish disappeared. The office now looked good as new. Tom sat down behind his new desk.

He picked up the telephone to make a call... and then he realized that one of the things on the to-do list for his new business was to reactivate phone, electricity, and water service. Sighing, he replaced his dead phone back on its base, and settled on looking around his office. The bookshelves were bare, the cabinets probably empty, and the walls barren. It was perfect for his needs.

* * *

"Omega 31447," Tom stated clearly.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stevens. Have you-"

"The Good Times Pub at 87 Raine Street in London," Tom cut him off.

"I trust you've acquired the place through legitimate channels?"

"If you mean interceding in a tax case between the former owner and the city, then yes," Tom answered.

"Good work, agent Stevens. We shall have four agents en route to you in the next twenty four hours. Their dossiers will be deposited at drop site 104-107. Anything else to report?"

"I've made contact with the Unspeakables, been inducted as "Uncle Sam", have made contact with Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, High Mater Pheonix, Nicolas Flamel, and Unspeakable codenamed Chameleon- suspected of being a double agent, and have established my cover. That's all," Tom finished dryly.

"Excellent work, agent. Keep it up." The call ended abruptly. A pop, and Tom appeared at the well in Glasgow that served as drop site 104-107. He pulled up the bucket to find four dossiers deposited neatly inside.

Tom reached over and flipped each in turn open to see the names of the agents under him. Maybe there was someone he knew…

He swore after he read the names over. Jim Currance. Ira Murray. Sarah Feldman. And Scott Harper. The only one he knew he wished he didn't. Hell he probably hadn't even gone tough basic training. And as for the rest, all of them were rookies.

He popped back home. The dossiers made for dry reading material. Currance was his warder from the south. Feldman was his resident potions expert. And Murray and Harper were his extra wands. Their recorded complete assignments were noticeably short, so short in fact that Tom was tempted for a brief moment to actually call his superior officer and make sure he'd gotten the right dossiers. But then he sighed, and remembered that it was his first assignment as an officer in charge, and so of course he was going to get raw agents from the bottom of the barrel. If things went to hell, at least all the CIA would have lost was scrubs-

A sharp pain shot through his side, and he looked down to see a knife protruding from his gut. He stumbled and fell on his back to see a figure wearing a black mask staring down at him. Sharp, searing pain shot through his body as the knife cut even deeper.

"Who- Who are-?" He choked out.

"Don Francisco sends his regards," the man chuckled in a heavily Italian accent.

"My- war- wards-"

"A few sappers did the trick," he replied. Tom mentally swore at the bastard using the oldest trick in the ward nullification handbook to fuck with him.

In a single move, Tom wrenched the knife out of side and leapt at the startled man. The Italian barely had time to shift to his side before Tom knocked both of them to the floor and his head was slammed into Tom's coffee table by the force of the impact. Tom held the knife above the assassin's chest as they both struggled in a tug of war with the deadly blade in the middle. The assassin lost the struggle, due to a combination of surprise and lacked clarity from the blow to his head, and his own weapon sliced through his chest, and ended his life.

Breathing heavily, Tom rolled off the corpse's body as blood began pooling on his nice Moroccan rug. Dammit, he liked that rug. Sighing, Tom withdrew his wand and began sealing the wound at his side. He also resolved to shove a bezoar down his throat just in case the tip of the blade was poisoned.

After grabbing a bezoar, Tom gazed at the assassin. He chuckled darkly at pretending that the assassin had gotten him in the lungs, and making him believe he only had seconds to live, when in fact he had hours. Still rubbing his aside, he began searching the man's body for any identification.

A few minutes later, he grumbled in frustration. Nothing. The corpse held no form of I.D… no information at all really. It was this lack of information that was in fact so illuminating, and Tom didn't know what to make of this turn of events. The fact that this assassin had no I.D on him, had effectively bypassed his wards, and had struck at him without him ever being alerted before a knife was planted firmly in his side, only lead to one conclusion: someone powerful wanted him dead. Yet another attempt on his life; this was starting to get real fucking old.

The news that some guy named Don Francisco was after him just seemed to register. Whereas Britain's scourge was Death Eaters and Blood Purist types, America had the mafia. The entire country was neatly divvied into different seats of power. Some, like Don Emilio Cox, held entire states, like Kansas, as their footholds. Others, like a metro Don, a term used to describe a city mafia boss, held mere blocks as their domain. Of course, those mere blocks could be from 43rd and Vanderbilt Avenue to 57th and 9th Avenue in Manhattan; the seat of Don Gullestini.

It was an endless war between the policing agencies and the mob types. One that often got bloody, dirty, and much too frequently, well publicized. The war was made so much more difficult by the fact that these same mafia bosses had entrenched themselves into American society as legitimate businessmen. Of course, finding evidence to the contrary was almost unfeasible without any kind of inside help- no one ever said a mafia boss was a rock head.

All the auror agencies had rooms where they kept each Don's territory on file, as well as suspected activities and known associates. And despite entering more than ¾ of those rooms in the country's various Auror agencies, the name escaped him.

He had never encountered, or even heard of, Don Francisco. Yet the man had apparently put out a contract on his life… and hired a well-trained assassin, who'd only failed to end his life due to bad luck. One who'd followed him off the continent and tracked his movements in Britain. Goddamnit, he did not need this shit now.

He limped over to the phone. "Omega 31447. This is Agent Stevens, and do I have news for you…"

* * *

"How's the wound?" Nicolas asked concerned, gesturing to his stomach. Apparently, the blade was poisoned… something that made the stab wound damn near impossible to heal except with time and care.

"Its fine," Tom grunted. He really hated conversations like this, where someone would talk about one of his various ailments, like a broken arm, or a fractured knee. What was he supposed to say except something really lame like 'I'm fine'? His wound stung like hell and would not go away?

"So what message did you need to relay to me so urgently?" Tom asked, trying to shift attention away from his leg.

Nicolas sighed. "Whispers have reached my ears, via a few well-placed informants, that certain… elements wish to engage in subversive activities at the upcoming Quidditch World Cup."

Tom frowned. "Blood purists or former Death Eaters?"

"Perhaps a little of both," Nicolas replied.

"When you say subversive activity…"

"It could be anything from a public demonstration of some kind to a full-scale riot, some kind of muggle or muggleborn targeting involved," Nicolas reported.

"So what can I do to help prevent this?" Tom asked eagerly.

"The World Cup is on August 22nd, a little more than two weeks away. I need you, to get your team together, and help us patrol the area starting next week," Nicolas declared.

Tom winced. "Uh, yeah, about my team… well, the A-Team, we're not."

Nicolas stared at him. "All rookies?" he asked slowly.

Tom nodded reluctantly. "All rookies."

"Good to know that if this thing goes to hell, then the CIA hasn't lost anyone that important," Nicolas laughed bitterly. "So, seeing as their best agents aren't here, are they in the Far East, trying to maintain order, or perhaps Africa, inciting new and exciting civil wars, or perhaps Central or South America, getting their hands dirty with various drug cartels?"

Tom laughed involuntarily. "I know exactly what you mean! I've gotten similar remarks a dozen or so times." he turned stoic. "They may be doing all that and more, but for the time being, I'm on their payroll, and even if it's all true, trying to keep the country from collapsing is a worthy proposition. Our attention needs to be on holding the fragile British Wizarding Alliance together. Besides, you're not one to talk. Any of your agents firebombed a Dominican Monastery lately?"

Nicolas winced. "I've told you already, he was tracking an international terrorist back to his hideout, and one thing led to another, and everything went up in smoke."

"Right after 'everything went up in smoke' didn't he defect to the Eritrean government?" Tom pointed out.

"At least our damage control earned their pay shortly after," Nicolas replied. "He had a 'heart attack' six months later."

Tom resisted the urge to laugh at their usual incredibly dark humor. "I will try and have my team ready for next week, but…"

"I know, I know, they're rookies, you need to test their skills, establish protocol, and so on," Nicolas piped in. "I understand, but still…"

"I'll do what I can Nick and I hope to be ready for then. If not, we might be slightly delayed, but we'll still be there." Tom sighed again, and took a swig of butterbeer which Nicolas had so generously provided him with. He flipped his wrist over to check his watch. "I better get going, Nick. I have some Agents to pick up at their airport."

Nicolas departed his seat and walked Tom to the door. "Good luck, Thomas. You're going to need it, because dealing with rookies is never a pleasant experience."

* * *

Tom wanted to shoot someone. He really did. "Fucking rookies," he snarled quietly, not really caring if they heard him or not. All four boneheads had come in on the same flight, packed similar looking luggage, had similar travel demeanors and styles, the same final travel destination, and yet vehemently denied any association to each other. This was the kind of shit that tipped people off, made them more paranoid, and resulted in superiors screaming at him for dozens of minutes at a time in the past.

Add to that his being stuck in the car he'd rented for the occasion, an Aston Martin, in typical Heathrow to London morning traffic, and the rookie's varied forms of nervousness, and yes, he wanted his gun. Thankfully, Scott, who was sitting right next to him, had not been a problem thus far, except for making the same stupid mistake as the other three. In fact, he'd seemed oddly calm, composed, and ready for action. How Tom wished the same could be said for the other three agents.

Currance was easily the most intimidating looking of the lot. He was a big, burly African American, with noticeable muscles… and also an easily noticeable nervous twitch. One that was quickly getting on his nerves. However, if everything else in his dossier was true, and this was the CIA doing the data recording, so it probably was, then he was supposed to be an excellent ward builder and deconstructer, though he had little in the way of field experience.

While he hoped everything in Currance's file rang true, he also hoped that the opposite was the case for Murray's file. From all indications, she was reckless, short tempered, and unable to handle criticism in any form. She was a former Hit-Wizard the CIA had drafted into their ranks after she was terminated in an incident with one of her bosses involving a stapler and his… johnson. Tom involuntarily shuddered. This was exactly the type of psychopath he really didn't want to deal with. Add in the fact that she looked rather… vindictive, yes that was a better word than plain, and Tom was afraid, very afraid.

Finally, there was Sarah Feldman. She was a woman who, for all intents and purposes, could easily be mistaken for a model. However, most potions masters hated being forced to brew under any kind of duress. Tom was almost willing to bet the combination of good looks and a potions mistress would translate into a rather sour disposition. Thankfully, she was silent, and not twitching or drumming her fingers impatiently, so for the moment, Tom could pray that she was an easy person to get along with.

Seeing that the London traffic was at a complete standstill, Tom leaned closer to Scott. "How was your flight?"

Scott shrugged. "Murray got into a fistfight with a stewardess and then obliviated her, the surrounding passengers, and the air marshal. Jim got trapped in the bathroom for half of it. Sarah was hit on by the elderly gentlemen sitting next to her. And I got the screaming kids in back of me, and the parents with the attitude."

"Complete five missions and the Agency pays for first class," Tom whispered back. Scott smiled at the thought.

"What's the plan, chief?" he whispered.

"I'm taking you to the new headquarters, just a warning- it's a wreck, and then I'll brief you all and set up protocol and assignments when we get there," Tom explained. Was it his imagination, or was the traffic lightening?

"Sounds good. I'm going to catch some shut-eye. Wake me when we get there?" he begged.

"I'll think about," Tom replied as he resumed driving.

"Good Morning, agents," Tom said, to wake up all the other sleeping occupants in his car. All four bolted awake, and shot him undisguised looks of hostility. "Follow me," he ordered.

He led them two blocks away to the bar. He opened the door, and walked in, with his underlings in tow, and headed for the back room, while pretending to ignore their disgust. He sat down behind his desk, and conjured chairs for the others.

"So you are a wizard," Ira gasped in mock comprehension. "I was beginning to worry when I saw the state of the bar. I guess you just aren't a very talented one."

"Relax, Ira. Or he might make refurbishing the crappy bar our cover," pointed out Sarah. Tom abandoned hope in her. Her voice was like claws on a chalkboard to his ears.

"He's only been here a week, so he probably hasn't had time to set up," Jim pointed out sarcastically.

Scott remained silent as Tom snapped his fingers, and the other three were hoisted into the air by their ankles, as he summoned their wands.

"Yes, thank you for your comments. Tell me, resident geniuses, would you rather that this disheveled bar looks brand-new in one night, or that I should simply hang a sign outside that screams "CIA Headquarters!" What the fuck is wrong with you morons? A bar can't go from being a dump to being completely refurbished and opened for business in the space of a week," Tom ranted. He was silent for a moment as he took a long breath. "You see agents; this is why you are 'rookies.' And this was why it was so easy for you four to be tailed."

"Tailed?" Scott clarified dubiously.

"Did you not notice that the gentleman with the troubadour and the trench coat was always in the immediate area as you left the terminal?" Tom queried mockingly. "Be grateful that was just a friend of mine checking in on you, or else you would have been compromised before the assignment even began."

Tom moved his wand under his desk as he snapped his fingers again, and all three crashed into their chairs. "Let's try this again, shall we?" He gestured to himself. "I am your boss. You are all rookies. When I say you're doing shit wrong, it's probably because you are, in fact, doing shit wrong!"

Tom sighed heavily. "What you probably don't know is that the only one here I've worked with before is Scott. And when we worked together, I thought he was a petty, unsophisticated, oafish loudmouth! Now then, considering he's the only one who I've haven't had to curse yet, what do you think that means for the rest of you!"

The other three rookies growled, but made no move to retaliate. Tom pulled out a bottle of butterbeer, and poured for all of them into newly conjured glasses. He pushed four towards the others, and took a sip from his own glass.

"Now then, welcome to the CIA's British sphere of operation. As you may have heard, for the past fifty years, no American Intelligence operations have gone on inside Great Britain unless it was a joint British-American effort. Technically, this is no different. We are here to monitor the situation here as pertaining to the spike in dark activity that has occurred in recent years. I'm assuming, because you're rookies, you either haven't received the related information, or you haven't looked at it." If looks could kill, Tom would be on the receiving end of a firing squad. But if his words weren't… diplomatic, they were true, as the ensuing silence proved.

"All right, then here's what you need to know. In the spring of 1992, the famous Philosopher's Stone, a creation of renowned alchemist Nicolas Flamel, was destroyed in a scuffle that was reportedly between Jonathan Potter, world famous Boy-Who-Lived, and the disembodied spirit of the British Dark Lord Voldemort. Unfortunately, the agency fact-finding branch was apparently on break when this report was being made up, because the specifics, especially Voldemort's involvement, can't be confirmed or denied."

"The following year, the fabled Chamber of Secrets, was opened, and a monster, now know to be a basilisk, was let loose on the school, petrifying six and killing one. The one being Gilderoy Lockhart, posthumous recipient of the Order of Merlin, Second class. The aforementioned basilisk was supposedly slain, once again by Jonathan Potter, in conjunction with a phoenix, the familiar of the Headmaster, and the famed Sword of Gryffindor."

"The last episode was the one that forced our hand, so to speak. Sirius Black, betrayer of the Potter family, or at least supposedly, escaped from Azkaban prison in the summer of 1993. We still haven't learned how he managed this, or why he did it, beyond speculation that he was after Jonathan, I mean. Speculation that was supported by Black's three famous sojourns onto Hogwarts castle grounds. During the third and final one, according to reports, he injured Mr. Potter, and two friends, and was briefly captured, before escaping once again. The whole affair caused a great deal of embarrassment for the British Ministry. And resulted in the leader of the Unspeakables, High Pheonix, organizing a coalition along with Walter Humphrey and Steven O'Rourke, heads of MI5 and MI6, as well as Prime Minister Williamson, to bring in American support in an effort to police the area and prevent another Dark Lord outbreak."

"So, I've been here, as Mr. Currance kindly pointed out, a week, trying to get things organized. This run-down bar becoming our new Headquarters is the result of my interceding on behalf of the former owner and settling things with the city of London so that he could avoid time in prison. I've already made contact with the Unspeakables, the resident Secret Service agency. And I've corresponded with MI5 and MI6 to coordinate our efforts. Questions?"

"What do you mean when you say policing?" asked Scott.

"The spike in Dark activity has some believing there could soon be another Dark Lord in power in this neck of the woods. When I say policing, I mean monitoring known Dark Wizards, trying to cripple the Dark Artifact trade, and maintaining order in general. British Wizarding politics, due to their stance on muggleborn rights, consists of several very fragile alliances between many powerful representatives of the pureblood and half-blood variety, and a group of disenfranchised, and increasingly discontent, muggleborns. All the ingredients needed for a political shit-storm," Tom finished.

"Any important events on the horizon?" asked Jim.

"Yes, in fact there are two. In a week's time, we need to head over to the Quidditch World Cup grounds. There are reports of planned subversive activity, a demonstration by those in support of 'the pureblood mandate' that might turn ugly. So, for the following two weeks, we will be there to patrol and make sure that nothing accidently reveals our existence to the non-magicals, or that if this pureblood demonstration happens, it remains civil and peaceful. After that assignment is complete, all of you will be relocating to the wizard village of Hogsmead due to the Upcoming Penta-Wizard Tournament between Salem, Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and one champion by choice of Nicolas Flamel. Seeing as I'm Flamel's choice, and my cover is studying under Potions Master Severus Snape, my being at Hogwarts should arouse no suspicion. You four will all have to find iron-clad alibis for your time in Hogsmead. The tournament has seven tasks spanning the entire September to June school year, so those alibis will have to be workable for that long. Anything else?"

"What are we supposed to do for housing and essentials?" asked Sarah.

Tom's eyebrows rose, and he knew he had a vein in danger of noticeably throbbing. "You are CIA agents, and adults, so I assume that you have the necessary acumen to make those calls. As you may be aware of, the Agency will cover all charges for now, and then argue about them when you get home- something to look forward to."

"What modus operandi are we to use?" asked Ira.

"Until such time as a target is confirmed as hostile, they are to be treated as a non-combatant. No use of any coercive interrogation techniques. Finally, everything we do is to be as under the radar as possible."

"What if we really need information from a suspect?" Ira pointed out, taking issue with his no coercive interrogation order.

Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. "What do you think this is- an action movie? Leaving aside the entirety of legal and ethical ramification, there are two simple reasons you never engage in such activities. First, in most of the situations where use of such techniques comes into play, there are only suspicions about the affiliations of such a target. Considering that without legilimency and a non-Occlumens, we can never know what another person knows, you may in fact be on the wrong track, but not know it. Veritaserum is much more effective in such an information gathering capacity. And if you're going to sue Veritaserum anyway, then why not cut out the middleman and ask your questions, knowing that the information you receive 99 times out of a hundred will be true?"

"Secondly, if they make it to the point where you are considering applying such techniques, then you can't trust the theoretical suspect. If you have no basis of trust, than how can you know if they are revealing the correct information you are seeking? In such a capacity, it would be very easily to feed us misinformation, or truth-claims. For those of you unaware, that roughly translates to things being claimed are true to knowledge of a person, but are unconfirmed, or possibly even false. So if we can't trust a person, how can we trust what they are saying? Pain? No, no, no! In certain, very rare situations, pain can supersede loyalty. But if a suspect has done something to make us believe that he has information about co-conspirators or something similar, than why would his or her pain, which would be our basis for fact-finding, ever reveal anything hidden from us on the behalf of their comrades? Agency studies have shown that 72% of the time, the information received is false, either due to direct lies, half-truths, or truth-claims. In short, these techniques are never acceptable for intelligence gathering because of their unreliability. In such a scenario, the use of legilimency, or Veritaserum, produces information at a 94% clip. If you don't have either on hand, try and make a deal, and simply renege later. This isn't rocket science, people!" Tom took a breather. "Anything else?"

They all shook their heads, stunned by Tom's vehemence on the matter. Tom withdrew little manuals from his desk drawer, and passed four over. "Then you three are dismissed. One more thing thought, take those protocol handbooks and memorize them by next week. I will contact all of you about a meeting time and place. Oh, and when you've all finally memorized the contents, burn the books. Goodbye. Please stay behind, Agent Harper."

Tom waited for the other three to depart before he shut the door again. He turned to Scott. "How are you doing, Scotty?"

"Fine, sir," he answered automatically.

"I hate to dredge up the past, but I'm considering our old work relationship, with all its ups and downs, as being behind us. That said, you're the only one of this lot who I feel can do their jobs right." Tom sighed. "I'm going to be frank; this situation has the potential to get really ugly, really fast. Can I count on you when the going gets tough?"

"Of course, sir," he replied.

Tom gazed at him steadily. "I'll hold you to that… for now. You can leave Harper. We'll meet again… soon."

* * *

Harper walked to the door without sparing him a second glance.

"Shit," Tom muttered when he arrived home and found his wards down once again. He cast the human revealing charm, and discovered three people inside.

Wand in hand, he slammed into the door, and brandished the wand at the two people visible. Once he saw who it was, he lowered his wand, but did not deposit it back into his coat pocket.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled.

One of the people turned and looked at him. "Harry?" he asked quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. Sorry for the delay, but expect the next update in late March. That's because I'm moving, and still working on _Mentored By The Gray._ Til' then, thanks for reading. I don't own Harry Potter.

Chapter Three: Good Will Killing

"I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?" Harry snarled.

James Potter held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Calm down please! We," he gestured to himself and Lily, "Just want to talk… Harry."

Harry shrugged, but didn't waste time denying what everyone here apparently knew. "Talk," he commanded tonelessly.

"Maybe we should all take a seat," Lily suggested quietly.

"Talk," Harry repeated in monotone.

"Harry-"

"Tom, actually," Harry replied, finally deciding that if they were going to beat around the bush, then so was he. "What do you want? And was it really necessary to break into my house?"

Lily flinched. "Please… can't we just sit and talk?" she begged softly.

Tom knew he would have been justified to start throwing blasting hexes, to squash them like the insects they were. The words were on the tip of his tongue, and a voice kept shouting in his ear, over and over again, "_Do it_." But he couldn't do it. Despite every memory of abandonment, every ounce of hate he held for these "people", and his longing for retribution, he just could not bring himself to attack his… parents. Well not really his parents; more like the people who brought him into this world. But really, he was arguing semantics. Despite how justified he would have been to unleash his arsenal of deadly spells upon them… he just could not bring himself to do it. Defeated, Tom took a seat opposite them, feeling as if he'd just betrayed everything he stood for. "What can I do for you two?" he asked, trying his hardest to sound casual.

James stared at him, and he looked as if he was struggling to find the words. "So you are… Harry?" he asked, as if for confirmation.

"A title," Harry replied promptly. "It is not who I am… it is not what I believe."

His parents shared glances. "What you believe?" Lily asked curiously.

"I don't believe that you have any right to call yourselves my 'parents', no matter how loosely defined the word is, and Harry is the name of your son. For all intents and purposes, I am not your son," Tom declared. "I haven't been your son since the day I was left at Wool's. My name is Thomas Stevens."

Lily looked close to tears, while James kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "How can you say such a thing?" Lily whispered.

Harry's gaze hardened. "Possibly because it's the truth. I've been known by three names in my life: Harry Potter, Mark Anderson, and Thomas Stevens. The first, because it was the name I was born with. The second, because it was the name I was enlightened under. And the last name, because it is who I am. Harry Potter, is dead," Harry finished quietly.

"Harry- please! You don't understand-" Lily cried.

"Then make me understand," Tom replied in a deadly whisper.

James coughed, and after seeing how hysterical his wife was becoming, began to speak. "After You-Know-Who's fall… well, words aren't enough. You had to physically be in the room, see the residue of dark magic, the scar across our brother's forehead, to understand. And then…" he hesitated, trying to choose his words carefully. "You starting acting… darker. You looked at John with… fire in your eyes, as if you despised his very existence… all because he had something you didn't; fame. But there was no going back after… the snake incident," James visibly gulped. "I will never forget the night I came up to tuck you in, and on your bed, curled up in your lap, was a brown garden snake. And you were whispering to it, in parseltongue. Before then, I never believed in the whole drivel about Parselmouthes being evil, but seeing someone actually speak the language… it reversed my position in a hurry. And then-"

"Let me get this straight; because you saw me one night sitting and talking to a garden snake, you decided your son needed to be sent to an orphanage?" Harry asked in a tone of forced calm. "It never occurred to you that your son might be lonely because you hadn't been up to tuck him in yet, and so he would talk to anyone who was there, even Geedo?"

"Ge-Geedo?" Lily stuttered.

Harry glared at her. "The garden snake. He had a name, after all."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," James replied swiftly. "You opened up more to a garden snake than your own parents."

"Are we really having this conversation?" Harry snapped. "You are berating me for talking with a garden snake, because I felt he was the only company I had? You are also claiming to possess amazing psychic powers that enable you to know how jealous I was of my brother… which I wasn't! I was three, you moron! Maybe if my parents had been there, to read me a bed time story, instead of spending an hour assuring my brother there were no monsters underneath his bed-"

"I knew you wouldn't understand!" James declared, with something like triumph seeping into his voice. His glance at Lily confirmed there was something akin to a contest going on between the two.

"GET! OUT!" Harry snarled, finally losing restraint, and using his wand to banish his "parents" out his front door. He angrily strode to the door, staring at his parents who lay in a crumbled heap on his lawn. "You are not my parents!" Harry snarled. "I want nothing to do with you, and I have nothing to say to you! Have a nice life!" Harry snarled as he slammed his door shut.

* * *

As was commonplace on nights when Tom retired to bed in a bad mood, his dreams eventually transformed into nightmares, or even worse… memories.

_"As Master Franklin has proven, you have not been adequately keeping up in your studies, Mr. Stevens," Headmaster Grigorov declared sternly. "Do you have anything else to say in your defense?"_

_Tom, who at this point was putting all his concentration into cursing Severus Snape, the man who'd sent him to this hellhole, remained silent. The Headmaster seemed to take his silence as a show of defiance._

_"Very well, Mr. Stephens. For your infraction… the board shall now choose your punishment." He gestured to three of his colleagues, standing by for a situation such as this. At his gesture, they walked into the back room, to decide his fate._

_Minutes ticked by, and the gravity of the situation finally revealed itself to Tom, who began to sweat at what might happen. Seconds turned into minutes, and Tom became more anxious with every tick of the clock. Finally, the three teachers on the board returned into the room, and stood silently, like statues, gazing at him blankly as if he wasn't truly there. _

_"Has the board reached a decision?" Grigorov asked with poorly disguised glee over the prospect of whatever this board had cooked up._

_"We have," replied Master Franklin. "For his infractions, Thomas Stevens is sentenced to two weeks in isolation."_

_At those words, Tom's inside froze in much the same way as the barren wilderness of Siberia would soon do. But before he opened his mouth to speak, to cry out at the unfairness of it all, he realized that his outcry would gain him nothing. With only a blank look on his face, Tom was escorted out of the mock courtroom, his wand was taken away, and he was forced to live for two weeks in the wilderness of Siberia…_

Tom awoke in a cold sweat. He didn't even need the dream to continue his time in isolation, the mildest of the school's punishments. As if he were back in the barren wilderness of Siberia, he felt the frost burn on his hand, the harsh wind slamming into his face, and the resounding silence that could drive a person mad. Those two weeks were the most disconnected, most alone he'd ever felt. But at least he never had to face a Dragon…

Tom threw himself back onto his bed, staring idly up at the ceiling. He was really hoping no one would decide to attack him tonight. As he had been rudely reminded twice already this week, the ward scheme he used was pathetic at best. What had he been thinking when he put it up? Oh yeah, that concealing his presence made erecting heavy duty defensive wards unnecessary. Well that bloody well didn't work.

He sighed and punched his pillow. Damnit! He needed to sleep. Whatever it was he had o do tomorrow was too important to do on a bad night's sleep. He was so busy tossing and turning that he almost missed the sound of breaking glass coming from his living room. Once he heard that all important sound, though, it was a jolt of electricity traveled through his body, and activated years of training that had been drilled into his head.

He slipped over the side of his bed, and pulled out the spare pistol he kept in his drawer. While magic was superior in almost every way to a muggle firearm, the one way it wasn't was for ranged stealth attacks. Try firing a spell at someone from a good distance away, and chances were they'd see the burst of light, and have a chance to dive out of the way. And from there, came a full scale battle. With bullets though… well, unless you were Neo, there was probably going to be no dodging. Especially if you didn't see the threat until it was too late.

Tom crept to his bedroom door, and opened it just enough to see through the tiny crack. Normally he would have been unable to see because the Living room would have been totally in the dark, but right now, the intruder, whoever he was, was busy climbing in while trying to avoid being impaled on the broken glass.

Tom took aim, waiting for the intruder to set a foot on the floor. Blissfully unaware of the danger they were in; the intruder carefully extricated himself from any of the broken glass, and then hopped to the floor. The sound of a gunshot destroyed any semblance of a calm, quiet night.

With a wave of his hand, Tom activated the Living room lights, as he kept his pistol trained on the unwanted occupant, who was crying in pain, and had the nerve to bleed all over his nice, clean floor.

Tom strode over, ripped off the mask, and held his gun to the man's head. Upon seeing the peril he was in, the intruder promptly stopped whimpering. Instead, he chose to glare hatefully at Tom.

"Good evening, Mr…?" Tom began conversationally.

After a few minutes of silence, the bullet in his leg, and the gun to his head won out. "You can call me… Mr. Smith," the man rasped. He was clearly an American.

"I assume Don Francisco dispatched you here," Tom remarked.

"You know he did. No, go on, kill me!" Mr. Smith snarled.

Tom laughed, as if sharing a private joke with a friend. "Oh, no, Mr. Smith- why would I kill you?"

Mr. Smith stared at him incredulously. "Maybe because I'm here to kill you!"

At that, Tom, slammed his head into the floor, making sure to knock the would-be assassin out cold. With a wave of his hand, Tom summoned over his first aid kit, and began removing the bullet from Mr. Smith's leg. After he'd bandaged the man's leg and head, he walked over to the dresser and removed an envelope he'd prepared for a situation like this. Then he grabbed hold of Mr. Smith, and apparated both of them to the middle of London.

They arrived in a deserted alley. Tom pulled his wand, which up to this point, he'd had no need for, and swiftly obliviated the man's memories of finding him. The he inserted a few memories detailing getting hit by a cab, and needing to fly back home. Thankfully, his employer had understood and arranged for plane tickets back home. Mr. Smith would awake in the alley, remember needing to head home, take the plane tickets from the envelope, and never suspect that Tom had placed a tracking charm on him that would lead him right to Mr. Smith's employers. With a grim smile, Tom dissapparated back home to the comfort of his bed.

* * *

"These fucking amateurs really need to get a life!" Tom concluded after he'd finished recounting the second attempt on his life while in Britain.

Nicolas rolled his eyes. "If they are such amateurs, Tom, then how did the first one manage to sneak up on you undetected, and stab you in the gut?"

"Look, that's neither here nor there. The point is, that I have to clear this whole thing up," Tom explained. "After the World Cup thing, I'll probably be headed back to America- to sort this thing out. Just thought I'd give you due notice."

"And I appreciate it," Nicolas replied. "Perenelle won't because that's when she'll finally be back." Nicolas sighed. "First it was visiting relatives on France, then it was an impromptu trip to Spain- what next?"

"You'd think after five-hundred years of marriage, you'd be used to her impulsiveness, especially when it comes to travel," Tom remarked.

"Tom, when you lived for nearly seven-hundred years, you see the world destroyed and remade several hundred times. The last time Penny was in Spain, Franco ruled with his iron fist. I'm sure its changed since then." Nicolas took a sip of his tea. "Hell, I remember when Penny and I traveled to what were the thirteen colonies, on behalf of the British government, to try and negotiate a peace treaty between themselves and France during one of their many wars. I also remember coming back several decades later to see the United States of America- with seventeen states at the time. Then, on our next trip, there were twenty seven. And the last time we went- forty eight. I don't see anything really unreasonable about Penny wanted to see how much the world around her has changed," he finished, somewhat defensively.

"I know and understand that," Tom said swiftly. "But you're such a lonely, miserable old codger, and I really can't bear the sight of that," he remarked sweetly.

"Bah! I'll give you a lonely and miserable old codger," Nicolas grumbled into his tea as Tom snickered.

"Oh yah, you said to tell you when the clock struck four," Nicolas said suddenly. Tom nodded. "Well, it's five after. You better hurry to make your appointment."

Tom stared at him incredulously, and then suddenly realizing he was late to a semi-important meeting, he dropped his tea onto Nicolas's tray and grabbed his coat. "I hate you!" he shouted as he dissapparated.

"You're late!" Scott supplied helpfully as Tom bounded into the squad meeting.

Tom's response was to use the inversion hex to dangle Scott in the air from his foot, while the others watched on. After Tom sat down, he waved his wand to cancel the hex, and send his unofficial second in command crashing to the floor.

"Scott, the first rule you must learn is that royalty is **never** late," Tom replied, as everyone's attention turned from Scott's crumpled for to Tom.

"What's the point of setting the meeting at four if you aren't going to arrive then?" Scott grumbled as he returned to his seat.

"Are you aware that 10% of your life as an Agent is going to be spent on stakeouts?" Tom asked. "Considering that you are going to be spending hours and hours simply watching and waiting, ten minutes won't kill you."

"Damn sadist," Scott murmured.

"All right, enough monkeying around. Let's get down to business," Tom declared. "Now then, Thursday we are all headed over to the World Cup grounds. Here are the arranged covers." Tom began distributing folders. "I am going as official security, with fully displayed rank and clearance. The rest of you are not."  
"Jill Pennybacker!" cried Ira incredulously.

Tom glared at her. "I didn't make up the names and covers. If I did, then maybe I'd make your name Brittany Brit-"

"But I'm Lawrence Pennybacker!" Jim interrupted in confusion.

"Well maybe if you'd look at the damn file, you'd see that you two are posing as a married couple," Tom returned sharply.

"Stanley Larson. I can live with that," Scott muttered.

"And I'm Michelle Nevers. At it isn't as bad as the other names," Sarah announced.

"That's great. I'm happy for you," Tom replied absently. "Now then, you have the week to prepare to assume the listed identities. Oh, and made sure you have the handbooks read by then. You three are dismissed; Scott, stay behind," Tom declared.

Tom's three least favorite people in the room swiftly made for the exit. "Sorry about the whole hex thing," Tom muttered. "I bloody hate them," he said, gesturing at the door.

"How many years do you think they'd get if being so self-absorbed was crime?" Scott asked.

"Multiple life sentences," Tom muttered. He looked Scott right in the eye. "The advantage of being in charge of this operation is that I have the power to delegate. So, when those three invariably mess up, I'm putting you in charge of discipline." He passed over the CIA disciplinary handbook. "More reading material."

Scott took the book with something akin to satisfaction at his unofficial promotion. "Is that all, sir?"

"No, Scott. There's more." Tom took a breath. "After the World Cup Operation, I have to return to Headquarters to deal with a… complication. I'm leaving you in charge during that time." Scott took a breath. "I understand the many thoughts going through your head at this news. I want the one in the lead to be "I better not fuck up or Tom will castrate me"."

Scott shook himself. "No sir- I wouldn't dream of-"

"I know," Tom cut in simply. "Besides, dealing with the children will get you ready for when the CIA puts you in charge of larger operations. Any questions?"

Scott was silent for a moment. "There's one thing I don't understand," he said finally. "I've been reading the relevant British Magical History for this mission-… well I just don't understand the whole deal with Voldemort," he admitted. Tom raised his eyebrow. "Don't get me wrong," he backtracked. "I get that he's a powerful and dangerous Dark Lord, but why has it become a matter of international security?"

"Do you want the short answer or the long and in depth answer?" Tom replied.

"The long answer, please. I really want to understand this situation," Scott confessed.

"All right, here it is. Located within the Magical communities of the World, there are many different factions with different beliefs as related to magic. Some, for example, believe in the complete legalization of any and all types of magic. Others are much more conservative in taste. However, in these communities, there is a definite split between a light and a dark faction. Now, some would have you believe this is a war for the soul and all that. The truth, is that dark is not necessarily evil. For instance, those who favor less regulation of magical practices would probably be more closely aligned with the dark faction, while the more conservative are probably going to be 'light' wizards."

"Now as you can imagine, with such a division, comes serious political ramifications. There has been, in recent European Magical History, a kind of voluntary segregation between factions of light and dark wizards. You will find, if you take a stroll through Magical France, or Magical Germany, or wherever, towns packed with wizards who would adhere to the principles of dark, mainly that any kind of magic should be allowed as long as it is used responsibly. Likewise, there will be definite camps of light wizards, who 'for the Greater Good' see the need to restrict access and allowance of certain types of magic. And, over the centuries, the dark population has steadily decreased, due to the fact that those in the dark camp are also more likely to be in favor of the 'pure-blooded ideal' or that purebloods have a kind of genetic supremacy. As you will see, the combination of the sense of entitlement, and a decreasing population, creates a volatile situation. At the same time, the number of those in the 'light' camp has increased, due to a greater influx of muggleborns, who then pledge themselves to the 'light' banner."

"Where this comes to head is that a Dark Lord like Voldemort has the potential to rally those in the 'dark' faction to his cause. By playing on the 'dark' fears that more and more magic will become legislated, that the influx of muggleborns will destroy 'dark' culture, that the group as a whole is on the brink of annihilation; he could theoretically cause a schism in the Magical Communities of Europe. Now imagine the implications of a Civil War in all of the magical communities throughout Europe, and you can see why the CIA is concerned."

"And there concerns are valid. Take Antonin Dolohov as an example of what I mean. He was born into a prominent pureblooded family in Soviet Russia. His family defected to the other side of the Iron Curtain when he was still very young. He grew up and befriended a young Voldemort. He was enthralled, for all intents and purposes, to Voldemort's banner by promises of a new tomorrow, with complete freedom, and elevation to his 'proper' station. He tortured and killed several dozen people in the War, and is now serving a life sentence in Azkaban."

Tom cleared his throat. "The threat Voldemort posed was to international stability. If he seized power in Britain, not only would many hundreds more flock to his banner, but it would have likely caused a ripple effect, where the other 'dark' magical populations began revolting against the 'light' wizard oppressors. The irony in this situation is that both factions are really just varying shades of grey. But make no mistake- European Dark Lords have the potential to throw the whole continent into revolt."

"And so ends the history lesson. Now then, Scott, if you have no more questions, then have a nice day, and I'll see you soon." Unsurprisingly, Scott left the room in a bit of a daze with all the information Tom had just thrown at him still cluttering up his mind.

* * *

"Any sign of trouble?" Tom whispered to Stanley Larson A.K.A Scott. They had been patrolling for over a week, with no signs of any kind of disturbance. That might well change at a moment's notice.

"None, sir. Unless you mean Currance and Murray moping around and Feldman mouthing off as usual," Scott replied.

"I didn't. Well, continue to look sharp. The World Cup's tonight and they might choose to strike during the celebrations," Tom replied as he moved away. He didn't want to draw any kind of attention, and continually whispering with someone would accomplish that spectacularly. A few minutes of walking, and he arrived in front of his least favorite couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Pennybacker; how is your holiday going?" Tom asked with a fake smile plastered on his face.

"I'll tell you how it's going you piece of-" Jim elbowed Ira.

"I apologize for my wife, sir. Our holiday is going well, thank you for asking. And thank you for your help in booking seats," Jim finished smoothly. The man might be a total ass, but at least he could act professionally.

"I'm glad to hear it," Tom replied. "There have been no… disturbances?"

"None, sir. Just a nice, peaceful holiday," Jim replied.

"I am delighted to hear that. Though I would advise you to take precautions, as the celebrations tonight might get… rowdy. Have a nice day," and with that, Tom departed. Several dozen steps later, and he was standing in front Feldman's tent.

Sarah emerged as if on cue. "Mr. Stevens," she greeted tightly.

"Ms. Nevers, what a pleasure this is," Tom replied smoothly. "I hope your time here has been… enjoyable."

She shrugged. "I don't know that much about enjoyable, but it was definitely peaceful."

"Delighted to hear it. Though I would advise caution this eve, as for one as beautiful as yourself, tonight's festivities may be a bit wild," Tom said.

She plastered a fake smile on her face. "I will keep that in mind, Mr. Stevens. Thank you for your concern, but I can take care of myself. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a nap."

"No problem, mademoiselle. Perhaps I shall see you later," he said with a roguish wink as he turned away. His last stop was the farthest distance.

"Ah, Mr. Flamel, what a delight it is to meet such a famous alchemist," Tom said in an oily voice that made him feel dirty.

"Mr. Stevens- how I wish I could say the pleasure was mine," Nicolas replied acidly. They had agreed that being seen at odds would be the best possible cover.

"I wish I could say that as well," Tom replied. "In the interest of professionalism, I won't hide the fact that I'll be keeping an eye on you to make sure you don't involve yourself in any… shenanigans."

"Phhht. Like there'd be anything to worry about until the World Cup is over. Everything is calm and quiet. So why do you have to stomp around like a rhinoceros?" Nicolas asked irately.

"To make you feel at home, good sir." Tom deadpanned. "If that will be all, I'll take my leave. I'm suddenly feeling the urge to bathe for the rest of the day." Tom left on that note, not at all eager to allow Nicolas a chance to retaliate.

For the next several hours, he continued to patrol the woods, to make sure there were no signs of any subversive activity. On his third pass, someone called out to his.

"Oy, Tom! Over here, Tom!" Tom turned to spot the jovial form of Ludo Bagman, CIA informant extraordinaire, sitting around a campfire with… Barty Crouch, a cluster of red-heads, a shaggy black dog, a grey-haired middle aged man, and… the Potters.

"Hey Ludo!" Tom walked over, and slapped his companion on the back. "How's the preparations a' coming."

"You know, Tom; you know," he waved off with a smile. He turned to the assembled group. "May I introduce American Hit-wizard and World Dueling Champion Thomas Stevens?"

"Can I hire you the next time I need an intro?" Tom asked.

"You don't strike me as the kind of man who needs his ego further inflated," muttered Crouch.

"I could say the same to you," Tom replied.

"And I could say that feeding your ego would make you even more dangerous than you already are," Crouch replied, getting to his feet.

"Says the old, broken down, power-hungry maniac who lost everything, including a bid for Minister of Magic," Tom shot back. The next second, both men had wands pointed at each other.

"CHILDREN! Please, stop acting like children!" Ludo cried, getting in between them.

For Bagman's sake, Tom sheathed his wand. Crouch was much slower to lower his, and continued to glare at Tom after he finally put it away.

Lily opened her mouth to say something to him, but Tom was, once again, quicker on the draw. "It was nice to see you, Ludo, but I've got to get back to my patrol. God help us if we have to obliviate that Mr. Roberts again- he might suffer permanent damage."

* * *

The match was incredibly entertaining, though Tom generally didn't like Quidditch that much. Of course, it was a great diversion, especially considering his favorite sport, baseball, was now in the midst of a strike. But now that the match was over, the real challenge might present itself.

An hour, two hours, three hours; Tom continually patrolled the celebrations, on the lookout for trouble. He was disappointed. Maybe Nick's source was wrong. Everything seemed to have gone smoothly to this point. Maybe the purebloods had lost their nerve, once they'd seen the amount of patrolling British Magical Law Enforcement Agents were undertaking.

Still Tom remained vigilant, even when he spotted all the other Agents getting lax. Ira and Jim were dancing in the middle of celebrations, while Sarah and Scott were on their sixth toast. Only Nicolas still remained vigilant. Tom made his way through the crowd to confer with his mentor.

"I have a hunch that your source wasn't wrong," Tom said airily.

"As do I. Those damn rookies better be ready to clear the stage once the real show starts," Nicolas muttered.

Tom rolled his eyes. "They are the bottom of the barrel. Even Scott, who I had such high hopes for, is really letting me down tonight." He glanced sideways at Nicolas. "Any troubles on your end?"

"I only have two Agents here. One of them hasn't reported to me in the last twelve hours," Nicolas sighed. "If she weren't a metamorphmagus, I'd-"

"Nymphadora Tonks?" Tom queried. Nicolas nodded, looking slightly bewildered that Tom knew her. "She's a double agent for Dumbledore. I'd suspect that she's staying close to the Potters, possibly on his orders."

Nicolas swore. "Dammit- I knew I had a leak!" he snarled.

Tom shrugged. "Now you have a perfect opportunity to feed Dumbledore whatever kinds of misinformation you want."

Nicolas's eyes lit up at the possibilities. "That senile old fool is becoming a little too interfering for my tastes. Perhaps I'll have to have a… chat with him, in the future."

"Relax, Nick- you know what has to happen," Tom interjected.

"I do," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I like it, or have to. Let me assure you that if dear Dora thinks she will be getting away with this, then she has another thing-"

"GET DOWN!" Tom shouted, as he leapt on top of Nicolas to avoid a burst of spellfire. The explosion from the blasting hex that just missed them halted the celebration, and people began screaming, panicking, and running for cover.

Tom and Nicolas looked up to see a battalion of people, all dressed in black cloaks, with wands out, and the four muggles who owned the campsite being levitated in the air.

"I think this party has finally started," Tom muttered.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: It has been quite a while, hasn't it? But no, this story has not been forgotten and left for dead. The next chapter will be quite a bit more substantial, but I think this is a good size as it is. Besides this is an important chapter for things going forward. I do not own Harry Potter, and I hope you all enjoy this latest installment.

Chapter Five: A Change of Employment

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stevens. Do you know why you were asked here today?" The lady sitting at the center of the panel, Dorothy Craverston, the magical senator from Wisconsin, began. She was much more formidable than her gentle appearance- a modestly sized black woman with a friendly face and what could have been warm eyes wearing formal clothing- indicated.

"It is my understanding that I was subpoenaed by this committee to discuss the events of last week," Tom replied calmly.

The grey-haired man sitting next to Senator Craverston, Mark Huddgings, the Senator from Nevada, leaned forward. "Yes those events at the Quidditch World Cup are primarily why you have been called here. Could you first state for the record your recollection of the events in question?"

Tom relaxed slightly. "Certainly. Well you see, the night of the Quidditch World Cup…"

* * *

_Tom dived to his side, just in time to avoid another barrage of blasting curses, right in front of the remains of a magical tent. He peeked through the wreckage, to see the army of black cloaked people still advancing on his position. A glance to the side, and he saw that Nicolas was kneeling securely behind some rubble that came from the blasting curse. Tom was about to try and communicate a plan of attack to him, when a series of chilling scream interrupted his thoughts._

_ Tom's head whipped around to get a bead on the action. What he saw made his blood froze. Lying by the remnants of another tent was Scott… lying in a pool of his own blood, and noticeably missing an arm and a leg. Right next to him, Jim, Ira, and Sarah were dueling the advancing army right in front of Scott, as if trying to keep them away from their fallen comrade. And they were doing so with minimal success, as their three wands could not stand against the might of two dozen more. They had, at best, maybe five minutes before they were overrun._

_Tom turned back to Nicolas and used his finger to make a half circle, to indicate a flanking maneuver. Nicolas signed back that he understood, and then, without wasting any more time, both wizards took off in the opposite directions, trying to attack the mob from the sides._

_ As he sprinted around the perimeter, he applied a disillusionment charm to his person just to make sure none could spot his approach. Once he finally raced behind the attacking mob, he climbed onto some of the wreckage from the attack, one of the first tents to be blown to pieces. _

_ From the vantage point, he had a good view of the mob from where they were most vulnerable. He raised his wand, ready to blast the blood purists to pieces, when conflict overtook him. Kill or Capture? _

_ Almost immediately, a voice whispered back Kill. He had the power to stop this mob in one foul swoop. He glanced towards where Sarah, Ira, and Jim were defending Scott's wounded form, only to have his blood, once again, run cold. There on the ground, right in between the still fighting forms of Currance and Feldman, lay Ira… on her back, in a pool of her own blood. As he watched, Jim tried to weave out of the way of another curse, on to be flung back into a wall. Sarah was the only one left fighting, and she was losing badly._

_ See: you should kill them. It sounded so confident… so righteous, that Tom almost acted upon them. He stopped himself, sweating heavily, at the last possible moment. "Can you bear to make their children orphans?" he whispered. "Just because you've done it before?" He almost expected the voice in his head to answer. Sighing, he began weaving his wand into a familiar pattern, a Golem construction. Once he finished the first one and sent it off to smash rioters, he began pushing more of his magic into the construction of a second one._

_ He saw flashes of light from where Nicolas had traveled to, and saw approaching Ministry officials join the battle with stunners and banishers. The tide of the battle was beginning to turn. A battle he could have ended with one spell, he had to remind himself. Too weak to do it._

_ "Depending on who they are and what they know, maybe I'm too strong to do it, to reduce myself so. To gamble it all and potentially risk the lives of my colleagues on the hopes that I alone can end this battle," Tom muttered, and then stopped, because he realized he was talking to himself. A sure sign of madness, if there was one. As more Ministry officials joined the battle, Tom became certain that the riot was about to end. _

_ He raised his wand once more, and began weaving an anti-apparition ward around the clearing, to prevent any of the blood purists from retreating. Sweat began to pour down his face as he swished, flicked, jab, and weaved his wand to encircle the clearing in a magical field that would prevent escapes. A final slash and the anti-apparition field became active._

_ And it was not a moment too soon for the ward to activate. Silhouetted in background of the clear night sky, a sickly green skull took form. The final touch, the snake protruding from the skull, set off a wave of panic amongst the mob, and they all tried to dissapparate as one. Tom's ward was just barely able to contain them all, and derail their escape attempts.  
_

* * *

"Let me see if I understand," Senator Huddgings interrupted. "You and the British Head of the Unspeakables circled and flanked the rioters and used golems, a disillusionment charm, and an anti-appiritaion ward to bring them all down." Tom nodded. "If you can use such impressive magic, then how exactly did-"

"If I may continue my story Senator, I think it will become clear," Tom interrupted neutrally.

* * *

_"So you can cast a ward that works. And here I was beginning to wonder," came Nicolas's chiding voice from behind him._

_ "Why would you doubt my ability to cast wards?" Tom asked in a strained voice, while still struggling to maintain the anti-apparition field. Seeing as he had no time to create a power stone to keep his ward active, he was forced to use the only magical conduit within reach; himself. _

_ "The two assassination attempts," Nicolas answered in a teasing voice._

_ "Fuck if I know how those damn assassins keep getting past them," Tom growled back. "I put up every concealing ward I knew, and then Fideliused the whole thing, and it is not working!"_

_ "You put up wards and the Fidelius charm?" Nicolas asked in a horrified voice. "Thomas, you dolt, you can't use both!"_

_ "Please Nick, not now!" Tom shouted. He glanced down to the clearing to see that the fighting had all but ended as the Ministry officials were rounding up the blood purist rioters. Seeing that they had no escape without fighting past the converging group of Ministry officials, the black robed figures all collectively surrendered. Finally, because he couldn't take the strain anymore, and because he thought he was in the clear, Tom finally dropped his ward. To his relief, none of the blood purists made a move to dissapparate. Still wracked with pain throughout his body, Tom began sprinting towards his downed Team members._

_ At a dead run, he reached the small enclosure his team occupied. He spied Scott first, still lacking an arm and a leg, and dangerously close to death. He pulled his wand, and performed a stasis charm, to keep Scott's body from shutting down completely. Once he had done all he could, with a final wave, he conjured a stretcher to ready him for a medical wizard._

_ He turned to Ira's body, and began to check it for life signs. He found a pulse, but it was rather faint; it looked like she wouldn't pull through. Tears threatened to reveal themselves, but he moved on to Jim. As he worked on stabilizing his body, his thoughts drifted to Ira, and how unpleasant a person she had been, how she had made this job miserable._

_ Jim was finally patched up, and so Tom turned to Sarah, who looked rather unharmed, all things considered. She was only unconscious, with a few cuts on her arms. Tom had to admit he was impressed by his potion mistress' dueling ability, especially in the face of such heavy odds. A final wave of his wand, and the cut across her forearm was healed, as he revived her._

_ Her grey eyes blinked open. "What… happened?" she groaned as she began to gingerly get to her feet._

_ Tom grabbed her arm and pulled her up. For a second, a look of fear and uncertainty flashed across her face. "Are you all right?" Tom whispered._

_ "Fine- I feel fine," she rushed out. "Are they…"_

_ "Scott and Jim are going to be recuperating for at least a month. Ira is… in really bad shape," Tom finished sadly._

_ The news of Ira's condition left Sarah with a shell-shocked look on her face. "She's going to make it- you'll see," Sarah whispered. "She's tough, Tom, she'll pull through. I know she will- she has to." Tom wanted to believe her, he really did, but he knew the odds, and he kenw what was probably going to happen._

_ Instead he turned to Nicolas, who was signaling the approaching mediwitches in order to alert them to the three members of Tom's team who desperately needed medical care. As healers set to work, Nicolas sighed at him. "I'm sorry about this whole thing, Tom," he said sadly. "My intelligence did not indicate anything of this size or scale. Again, I'm sorry."_

_ Tom got to his feet, and walked away from the clearing intent on heading home. Before he reached the edge to dissaparate, he turned back to Nicolas, who had been following. "What is the problem with my wards?" he whispered._

_ Nicolas, seeing that Tom wanted some form of distraction, to take his mind off the night's events, replied, "A Fidelius charm hides a secret within a soul, while those wards are designed to hide an object from being found. But making a secret unplottable, as an unplottable ward would do, only serves to nullify the ability to keep a secret. It's like dressing to be inconspicuous in a crowd, and then having a sign that says "He's trying to be inconspicuous" over your head the entire time."_

_ "Right," Tom replied absently. He felt a poke at his shoulder, and he turned to see Sarah standing there, with tears glistening in her eyes._

_ "What should I do? I- I want to help," she whispered._

_ Tom sighed. "Go home, Sarah," he commanded softly. He saw her crestfallen look. "I know feeling helpless sucks, but these are trained mediwitches. There is nothing you, or I, could do, to make this go any easier for Jim, or Scott, or- Ira," he finished dully. "Go home, Sarah, and get some sleep. I already know that they're being taken to St. Mungo's. We'll visit them tomorrow. For now, there is nothing you can do." He turned and began to walk away. Reaching the boundary of his ward, and feeling as if he should say something more, he turned back to Sarah and shouted, "Good Night" before dissaparating with a crack._

* * *

"I'm afraid I still don't understand Mr. Stevens. How exactly did you botch this and let all of the suspects escape custody?" asked the Senator sitting at the end, Senator Landstman, someone Tom had come to dislike in his line of work.

"Right after we'd rounded all the suspects up and sent off the remnants of my team for physical and mental rehabilitation, I journeyed to auror Headquarters. I would like to add for the record that I was in a delicate state of mind due to waiting at St. Mungo's to pay a visit to the Healers and ascertain my team's condition," Tom added.

* * *

_Tom listened attentively as the attending mediwitch read out a detailed analysis of his comrade's injuries. "So, in conclusion: Mr. Currance will be bedridden for a month, and will need four potions a day. He is to be removed from active duty for two months afterwards. Mr. Harper will require a month and a half of Hospital care, and then an additional 2-3 for rest and recuperation. Ms. Murray, though she was in very critical condition, looks likely to pull through. She is to be discharged after three months, and, if she is ever able return to active duty, she should be removed from it for a year prior for evaluation." The mediwitch finished reading the report. "Unfortunately, the healers are still working on patching them up. We will let you know as soon as your friends are awake and ready for visitors. Good day." With that, the busy mediwitch got up and left the room, leaving a stony-faced Tom._

* * *

"After I had waited for an hour or so to hear that diagnosis, I apparated over to the compound where the Unspeakables held their suspects," Tom mentioned. "It was there that the situation rapidly deteriorated."

* * *

_"Listen you pompous son-of-a-bitch! Perhaps you don't understand the situation here! You were caught wearing black robes, with a crowd attacking muggles and civil servants! So don't think you can buy your way out!" Tom snarled._

_ Lucius Malfoy just stared back at him defiantly. Even though it wasn't one of his typical scathing and sarcastic answers, Tom had had it with that look; he quickly raised his hand and slapped him across the face. As Malfoy reeled, there was a clanging on the other side of the door to the interrogation room, and two aurors quickly entered._

_ "Mr. Stevens, we have to end this interrogation right now, sir," the first one declared. "We can not allow the harming of suspects that are being questioned."_

_ Tom stared at him, regretting his anger. "I know that," He replied softly, his mistake dawning on him. He missed Malfoy's smug look of triumph. "Take him away!"_

_ Tom walked out of the interrogation room to grab himself a cup of tea and get himself back together._

* * *

"I spent maybe five, ten minutes, trying to get my head on straight," Tom declared. "That was apparently enough time for their men inside the department to get to work."

* * *

_"All right, Brixton, I'm signing off for the night. I need some rest before I continue on this," Tom announced. When Brixton didn't answer, Tom walked closer to the entrance desk. Was this one of those guys who didn't see anything wrong with getting a nap on the job? "Brixton, dammit, this is a lousy time to try and grab some shuteye." Tom made to shake him awake. "Brixton get up, damnit. Brixton!"_

_ Brixton wouldn't wake, and suddenly Tom was beginning to feel paranoid. Gently, he reached around and felt for a pulse on his neck. Horrified by the results, Tom lifted up his head to stare at glassy eyes that would blink no more. "Oh. Shit."_

_ Tom gently set the fallen auror down and began rushing towards the holding cells. A burst of spellfire to his right made him dive for cover behind one of the desks._

_ "We'll be back for you, Stevens!" snarled the masked figure as he darted back towards the exit._

_ Tom raised his wand and turned the desk he had been using for cover into a cheetah, and dispatched it after the intruder. Another burst of spellfire turned his transfiguration to dust. Already knowing what he would probably find back in the holding cells, Tom began sprinting off after the intruder."_

* * *

"As you can imagine, with that much of a lead on me, he got away," Tom finished tiredly. "I was right; all of the people caught at the World Cup were released, though some, like Lucius Malfoy, were able to convince the Minister they had been captured and forced to attend and flee soon afterwards, and thus, were able to secure a pardon within hours of the breakout," He finished neutrally.

The panel members glanced at each other, and Tom instinctively knew what the verdict would be. "We have no more questions for you, Mr. Stevens. Would you please wait out in the hall while we convene?"

The wait was agonizing, with second after torturous second ticking by. Why couldn't they just get it over with? Why? He already knew what was going to happen. He had screwed up in a big way. His actions had inadvertently allowed several high profile suspects to escape. If he'd just maintained his composure through the questioning- no, no regrets. He couldn't allow his thoughts to head in that direction.

He walked back into the room a half-hour later. The judges- his judges, jurors, and executioners- were sitting there, staring at him. Unless he was much mistaken, there was a momentary flash of regret in all of their faces.

"Mr. Stevens, we have convened, and are ready to render verdict upon the events in question. This committee finds that while you have not committed any criminal acts or wrongdoing during the events in question, your continued employment as an agent of the United States can not be allowed to continue on the basis of this incident," Craverston read from the paper in front of her.

Tom bowed his head mournfully. "I understand," he muttered sadly.

"Your clearance to government files has been revoked. However, for your years of excellent service, your pension shall be awarded to you in full, and all health care costs you incur from this point forward shall be covered. Your severance pay shall be sent to you in two weeks time," Huddgings added. He glanced at Landstman. "Is there anything else to add?" Landstman shook his head. "Then this meeting is adjorned."

Tom left the courtroom dejectedly, stopping when he came face to face with an older woman with a stern face dressed in a fine black coat. "Mr. Stevens, can I have a moment of your time," She asked in a crisp, business-like tone.

"Certainly, Ma'm," Tom replied. His instincts told him that she was someone rather important, and whatever she wanted with him was probably also important. He began following her to a neighboring conference room. She quickly entered, and seated herself at the unoccupied table, leaving Tom to take the seat opposite. "Mr. Stevens, on behalf of Her Majesty, I would like to offer you an employment opportunity in a field you have proven quite skilled in."

Tom stared at her blankly for a moment, before it finally sunk in and he let out a bark of laughter. It was the first time he'd laughed all day. "Don't tell me you're MI5!" Well, that was one definition of landing on his feet.

The woman stared at him scornfully. "MI6, actually." Tom was beginning to get the sense that she wasn't happy being here. Was this position a favor Nicolas had called in or something? "We're the ones responsible for interfacing with the Magicals. And as I have said, we would like to offer you an employment opportunity after your termination as an American government employee."


	6. Chapter 6

AN: This chapter and the last installment were originally one, but they contrasted too sharply. In splitting them up, my beta and I eventually hit on how he was portrayed, but I couldn't change it, as much as I would have liked to. Many readers- you all know who you are- felt the exact same way, but hopefully, taken together, this should quell your fears as to the direction of this story. Thank you for reading and reviewing, and I don't own Harry Potter.

Interlude: Cutting Through The Web

"Mr. Stevens, this room is secured. You can drop the act," The recruiter half asked, half ordered.

Tom's face went neutral. "Room is secured?" He pulled out his wand and flicked it a few times. "I guess that's a yes," He said as he glanced around warily.

"Very impressive acting ability, sir," The recruited commented. "Now I-"

"Before we go any further, might I have a name?" Tom requested. He was still trying to decide if this was a ruse to extract more information from him.

"You can call me Ms. Adams," She replied. "Now, as I was saying, why the duplicity?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Tom replied innocently. At very least, she seemed to know what was going on. Whether that was a good or bad thing, he had yet to tell. "I'm a heartbroken agent who's just screwed up in the line of duty and gotten my entire team seriously injured."

"I said you can drop the act," Ms. Adams replied. "I have here your teams medical report. 'Two months? Might never return to service?" The most serious injuries, according to the healers we've spoken with, will require bed-rest for two weeks," Ms. Adams commented.

"Two weeks- two months? What's the difference?" Tom commented idly. "I did warn them all to not let their guard down. I also warned them to remember the rigorous workouts I put them through during the week prior. In truth, I was disappointed with their performance."

"I'll ask again: Why the duplicity? Why the whole song and dance about your subordinates and their serious injuries in the line of duty, and all prisoners in your custody escaping?" She asked.

"Before we go any further, I need to see some Identification," Tom announced. Time to see who he was dealing with.

Ms. Adams stared him in the eye. "What you're asking for is highly unusual."

"I.D. Now, please?" Tom requested. 'I'd like to make sure that you're…'

Ms. Adams sighed and reached for her briefcase. Opening it, she produced two folders. "Verification of my employment with the British government, and a cumulative file on your operations in the service in the American government. You'll notice the second folder is quite large." Tom took the first one and leafed through it for a few minutes. "Satisfied?"

"Yes. _Victoria_." She frowned. "Yes, I am satisfied that you are in the employ of MI6. On a side note, thanks for Nicaragua."

"My pleasure. So Tom, why the duplicity?" she asked a third time.

Tom glanced around, giving his wand another flick. Satisfied, he leaned forward. It seemed time to come clean, and who better to than an old… friend. Yes, that seemed like the right word. "I've been compromised."

Ms. Adam's eyes rose. "Perhaps I could get the story from the beginning?"

"Over drinks?" Tom offered.

She sighed. "I'll have a private room reserved a few blocks down at the-"

Tom raised an eyebrow as he cut her off. "Really? There. How formal. I'm honored."

"Be there at eight," she replied primly as she got up and left the room. "Oh, and just a reminder, you're supposed to be a depressed American agent who just got fired, not a man with the weight of the world off his shoulders."

* * *

"The clueless agent act seems second-nature to you," Ms. Adams commented as Tom sat down at their private table that evening.

"Everyone expects a seventeen year-old to bugger everything up. Especially in the Intelligence Community. This act has been my saving grace for years. I just go with other people's expectations," Tom replied.

"So, you owe me a story," she pointed out.

"And you me," Tom commented. "Why exactly were you disguised as 'M'?"

"Everyone we recruit these days expects to be recruited by her. To quote a friend, we were just going with other people's expectations," she smiled thinly.

"Yeah, well I prefer this look," He commented. He glanced at her figure; long, flowing black hair, bright red top, light brown skirt, and oh those shapely legs.

"You can stop checking me out now," Ms. Adams commented.

"Yes I knew that," Tom answered idly. He pulled his glance back to her face. "So, are we still having a secure conversation, Vicky?" He asked casually.

"Yes, we are. And please stop calling me by my first name, or any variation thereof," she warned quietly.

"Fair enough. Anyway, long story short, without the fake occlumency memories to boot; Huddgings was supposed to be a pretty decent legilimens back in the day. Anyway, I scrambled onto the scene, conjured up golems galore, my team sustained minimal injuries- most of which I patched up, except for some of Ira's." He saw her raised eyebrows. "If you're curious as to how they're unaware, I've been substituting their files and reports with properly doctored ones."

"Anyway, my agents are fine, though the panel won't know that for a few years. Anyway, the Death Eaters didn't bust out- we let them escape because we knew the British Minister, Fudge, would pardon them all anyway, and damn the consequences. This way, we have the means to keep an eye on them all, and some of them still retain fugitive status. The only part we really botched was Brixton, and the person who botched that part has been fired," Tom explained.

"And the payoff?" Ms. Adams pressed.

"I've been targeted by an organization. You were monitoring the hearing, correct?" She nodded. "That whole 'no fidelius on top of wards bit?' Complete nonsense. I already knew that, and found a way around it. And believe me, it works. Or at least it did. But the boys in the Unspeakables have uncovered a ward neutralizer being used against me." He saw her curious glance. "It was inspired by Albus Dumbledore's famous deluminator. Basically, it flickers out a ward with minimal disruption, without alerting anyone, as long as a person knows of its existence. And also, in the honor of the person who apparently inspired it, it is also shaped like a cigarette lighter."

Tom took a sip of his drink. "Anyway, someone back here has been leaking my information to this organization- still don't have all the details about them- which they've then been using to try and kill me."

"And you have proof of this?" Ms. Adams asked dubiously.

"I have certain account payments made on certain days that certain pieces of information were also passed to certain parties. I can't say more than that," Tom finished. "But yes. Someone named Don Francisco has been put in charge of killing me. At first, I thought he was part of the American crime system, but now, I've come to the conclusion that he's with an organization. This organization, which seemed to originate here in the States, is using the American model but implementing it worldwide. They are rather secretive and shadowy, with their hands in many pies, but I've uncovered some details. One specific I can mention is that someone has accessed my file twenty-four times in the past three months. That's how I found out I was compromised. And that was why I wanted out of my American commitments."

"How exactly did you fool them all into believe the version of events you concocted. After all, you seemed to really believe it," she commented.

"A method my mentor came up with. You construct the memory in such a way that is seems, feels, and basically becomes, real. Then, and this is the part that requires willpower, you have to believe it- know the details, know the angles, know the sequence, until the memory becomes you; defines you. Then, whilst clinging to that memory, you can act as though you really believe it, and none could sway you otherwise," Tom explained.

"And you are explaining all this because…? Hell, why have you let me in on everything?" Victoria asked incredulously.

"Because Scott Harper is sitting one seat down under my Invisibility Cloak ready to rectify any mistakes I make to atone for his own," Tom replied casually in a quiet voice only she could hear.

"Hi boss," Scott whispered, just loud enough for both of them to pick up.

"He was also covering me during the hearing. Thanks to the assignment I was given, he's technically operating under the orders of the Unspeakables by being here," Tom continued.

"Wait, that kind of thing can actually happen?" She asked.

"Vicky, I thought you've been in this business for a decade? You should know that the kinds of things our industry gets up to would leave a law firm in a confused haze for weeks," Tom pointed out.

"True. I just never expected to see it firsthand to this degree," she explained defensively. "Anyway, I have the paperwork. All we need is your signature and everything can be signed, sealed, and delivered."

"Give it here, please," Tom took the forms, read them through, and gave it all his John Hancock five minutes later.

"As your new superior officer, I would like to ask exactly how illegal this entire thing is," Victoria said, once everything was official.

"Actually, this is all on the up and up, funny enough. There's a clause in my contract for Emergency, Unnotifiable Departures From Duty. Situations where you need to leave, but the real reason can never come to public light. Like a direct threat o family or friends. Or private health concerns. I just used that. In a way. If this whole thing ever caught up with me, I have the proper legal documentation to fight the charges in court and win. So, really, I'm in the clear, as unlikely as it seems. Besides, you know the joke about the CIA." Tom chuckled. "You don't get out of there alive-"

"-Unless you've been fired," Ms. Adams finished. "So what happens to you now?"

Tom shrugged. "I take my orders from you. I'm due at Hogwarts in two days unless that gets countermanded. If it doesn't, then I'll slowly put out the feelers and track down the international crime organization I mentioned. I already have an account number to go on. And when I do find out where the strings lead, I go hunting."

"We go hunting," Scott corrected, still under the Invisibility Cloak.

"Umm, there is one detail that you haven't factored in," Ms. Adams inserted nervously.

"And what is that?" Tom asked.

"With your current reputation, and your current situation, MI6 can't hire you as is," she explained.

"Then what was that contract I just signed," Tom replied amusedly. It certainly was a legitimate contract; he was in this line of work to know what one looked like.

"Oh, you are in our employ, but not as Tom Stevens," She clarified. "In looking through our records, we discovered that you are a born citizen, Mr. Potter."

Tom's jaw fell open. "How did you find out about that?"

"We keep thorough records?" she suggested meekly. "Anyway, in signing all that, we put through the paperwork to make sure everything looks legitimate as to your background. Which also distances you from being Mr. Stevens, which would certainly attract undue attention at this point. Consequently… well-" she patted him on the shoulder, "Welcome home, Mr. Potter." Harry could only stare at her, open-mouthed.


End file.
